UC-NRLF 


THG 

UNIY6RS1TY  Of  CALIFORNIA 
LIBRARY 


UNIFORM  WITH   THIS   VOLUME, 
And   by   the   same    Author: 

POEMS,  LYRIC  AND  IDYLLIC, 

PRICE,   75   CTS. 


ALICE    OF    MONMOUTH 


IDYL  OF  THE  GKEAT  WAR 


OTHER    POEMS 


BY 

EDMUND    C.   STEDMAN 


NEW    YORK 
CARLETON,  PUBLISHER,   413   BROADWAY 

LONDON:   SAMPSON  LOW,   SON  AND  COMPANY 


M.DCCCLXIV 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1863,  by 

GEO.  W.  CARLETON, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


RIVERSIDE,    CAMBRIDGE: 
STEREOTYPED  AND  PRINTED  BY  H.  0.  HOUGHTON. 


OF 

C.  F.  g. 

DIED:  MAY  13,  1863. 


It  was  not  given  thee,  who  wast  so  brave, 
On  the  proud  field  to  fill  the  patriot's  grave ; 
'  Twas  not  thy  lot,  tho*  graced  with  culture  rare, 
To  dwell  'mid  things  congenial  and  fair ; 
Nor  found  thy  gentle  soul  a  destined  mate, 
To  share  and  soften  such  an  adverse  fate : 
Ah  !  sioeeter,  since  they  came  so  late,  should  prove 
Thy  now  serener  glory  —  beauty  —  love. 


397174 


CONTENTS. 


I. 

PAGE 

ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH 11 

n. 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

ALECTRYON 95 

THE  TEST 106 

THE  OLD  LOVE  AND  THE  NEW.        .        .  109 

ESTELLE 115 

EDGED  TOOLS 119 

THE  SWALLOW 122 

REFUGE  IN  NATURE      .        .        .        .        .  123 

MONTAGU 127 

WILD  WINDS  WHISTLE        .        .        .        .  131 

PETER  STUYVESANT'S  NEW  YEAR'S  CALL    .  135 

in, 

TRANSLATION. 

JEAN  PROUVAIRE'S  SONG  AT  THE  BARRICADE  147 


I. 


ALICE    OF   MONMOUTH. 


ALICE   OF   MONMOUTH. 
I. 


1. 
TTENDRICK  VAN  GHELT  of  Monmouth  shore, 

His  fame  still  rings  the  county  o'er  ! 
The  stock  that  he  raised,  the  stallion  he  rode, 
The  fertile  acres  his  farmers  sow'd ; 
The  dinners  he  gave  ;  the  yacht  which  lay 
At  his  fishing-dock  in  the  Lower  Bay ; 
The  suits  which  he  waged,  thro'  many  a  year, 
For  a  rood  of  land  behind  his  pier  ; 
Of  these  the  chronicles  yet  remain 
From  Navesink  Heights  to  Freehold  Plain. 

2. 

The  Shrewsbury  people  in  autumn  help 
Their  sandy  toplands  with  marl  and  kelp, 
And  their  peach  and  apple  orchards  fill 


IS,'  >%'«««'  c;  <AMQE\OF  MONMOUTH. 

The  gurgling  vats  of  the  cross-road  mill. 

They  tell,  as  each  twirls  his  tavern-can, 

"Wonderful  tales  of  that  staunch  old  man, 

And  they  boast,  of  the  draught  they  have  tasted  and 

smelt, 
"  Tis  good  as  the  still  of  Hendrick  Van  Ghelt !  " 

3. 

Were  he  alive,  and  at  his  prime, 
In  this  —  our  boisterous  modern  time, 
He  would  surely  be,  as  he  could  not  then, 
A  stalwart  leader  of  mounted  men  : 
A  ranger,  shouting  his  battle-cry, 
Who  knew  how  to  fight  and  dared  to  die  ; 
And  the  fame,  which  a  county's  limit  spann'd, 
Might  have  grown  a  legend  throughout  the  land. 

4. 

He  would  have  scour'd  the  Valley  through, 
Doing  as  now  our  bravest  do  ; 
Would  have  tried  rough  riding  on  the  border, 
Punishing  raider  and  marauder  ; 
Writh  bearded  Ashby  crossing  swords 
As  he  took  the  Shenandoah  fords  ; 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH.  13 

Giving  bold  Stuart  a  bloody  chase 

Ere  he  reach'd  again  his  trysting-place. 

Horse  and  horseman  of  the  foe 

The  blast  of  his  bugle-charge  should  know, 

And  his  men  should  water  their  steeds,  at  will, 

From  the  banks  of  Southern  river  and  rill. 

5. 

How  many  are  there  of  us,  in  this 
Discordant  social  wilderness, 
Whose  thriftiest  scions  the  power  gain, 
Thro'  meet  conditions  of  sun  and  rain, 
To  yield,  on  the  fairest  blossoming  shoot, 
A  mellow  harvest  of  perfect  fruit  ? 
Fashion'd  after  so  rare  a  type, 
How  should  his  life  grow  full  and  ripe, 
There,  in  the  passionless  haunts  of  Peace, 
Thro'  trade,  and  tillage,  and  wealth's  increase  ? 

6. 

But  at  his  manor-house  he  dwelt, 
And  royally  bore  the  name  Van  Ghelt ; 
Nor  found  a  larger  part  to  play, 
Than  such  as  a  county  magnate  may : 


14  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

Ruling  the  hustings  as  he  would, 
Lord  of  the  rustic  neighborhood ; 
With  potent  wishes  and  quiet  words 
Holding  an  undisputed  sway. 
The  broadest  meadows,  the  fattest  herds, 
The  fleetest  roadsters,  the  warmest  cheer, 
These  were  old  Hendrick's  many  a  year. 
Daughters  unto  his  hearthstone  came, 
And  a  son  —  to  keep  the  ancient  name. 

7. 

Often,  perchance,  the  old  man's  eye 
From  a  seaward  casement  would  espy, 
Scanning  the  harborage  in  the  bay, 
A  ship  which  idly  at  anchor  lay  ; 
Watching  her  as  she  rose  and  fell, 
Up  and  down,  with  the  evening  swell, 
Her  cordage  slacken' d,  her  sails  unbent, 
And  all  her  proud  life  somnolent. 
And  perchance  he  thought  —  "  My  life,  it  seems, 
Like  her,  unfreighted  with  aught  but  dreams ; 
Yet  I  feel  within  me  a  strength  to  dare 
Some  outward  voyage,  I  know  not  where  !  " 
But  the  forceful  impulse  wore  away 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  15 

In  the  common  life  of  every  day, 

And  for  Hendrick  Van  Ghelt  no  timely  hour 

Ruffled  the  calm  of  that  hidden  power ; 

Nor  is  it  with  him  my  words  belong : 

But  his  presence  ushers  in  the  song, 

As  a  Lombardy  poplar,  lithe  and  hoar, 

Stands  at  a,  Monmouth  farmer's  door, 

Set  like  a  spire  against  the  sky  — 

Marking  the  hours,  while  lover  and  maid 

Linger  long  in  its  stately  shade, 

And  round  its  summit  the  swallows  fly. 


16  ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 


II. 


1. 

"VTATURE  a  devious  by-way  finds :  solve  me  her 
secret  whim, 

That  the  seed  of  a  gnarled  oak  should  sprout  to  a  sap 
ling  straight  and  prim ; 

That  a  russet  should  grow  on  the  pippin  stock,  on  the 
garden-rose  a  brier ; 

That  a  stalwart  race,  in  old  Hendrick's  son,  should 
smother  its  wonted  fire. 

Hermann,  fond  of  his  book,  and  shirking  the  brawny 

out-door  sports; 
Sent  to  college,  and  choosing  for  life  the  law  with  her 

mouldy  courts ; 
Proud,  and  of  tender  honor,  as  well  became  his  father's 

blood, 
But  with  cold  and  courtly  self-restraint  weighing  the 

ill  and  good ; 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  17 

"Wed  to  a  lady  whose  delicate  veins  that  molten  azure 
held, 

Ichor  of  equal  birth,  wherewith  our  gentry  their  coup 
lings  weld; 

Viewing  his  father's  careless  modes  with  half  a  tolerant 
eye, 

As  one  who  honors,  regretting  not,  old  fashions  passing  by. 

After  a  while  the  moment  came  when,  unto  the  son  and 

heir, 
A  son  and  heir  was  given  in  turn  —  a  moment  of  joy 

and  prayer, 
For  the  angel,  who  guards  the  portals  twain,  oped,  in 

the  self-same  breath, 
To  the  child  the  pearly  gate  of  life,  to  the  mother  the 

gate  of  death. 

Father,  and  son,  and  an  infant  plucking  the  daisies  over 
a  grave : 

The  swell  of  a  boundless  surge  keeps  on,  wave  follow 
ing  after  wave ; 

Ever  the  tide  of  life  sets  toward  the  low  invisible  shore ; 

Whence   had   the   current  its   distant  source  —  when 
shall  it  flow  no  more  ? 
2 


18  ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 

2. 

Nature's  serene  renewals,  that  make  the  scion  by  one 

remove 
Bear  the  ancestral  blossom  and  thrive  as  the  forest 

wilding  throve  ! 
Roseate  stream  of  life,  which  hides  the  course  its  ducts 

pursue, 
To   rise,   like   that   Sicilian   fount,   in   far-off  springs 

anew! 

For  the  grandsire's  vigor,  rude  and  rare,  asleep  in  the 

son  had  lain, 
To  waken  in  Hugh,  the  grandson's  frame,  with  the 

antique  force  again ; 
And   ere   the   boy,   said   the   Monmouth   dames,   had 

grown  to  his  seventh  year, 
Well  could  you  tell  whose  mantling  blood  swell'd  in  his 

temples  clear. 

Tall,  and  bent  in  the  meeting  brows  ;  swarthy  of  hair 

and  face  ; 
Shoulders  parting  square,  but  set  with  the  future  hunts 

man's  grace ; 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  19 

Eyes  alive  with  a  fire  which  yet  the  old  man's  visage 

wore, 
At  times,  like  the  flash  of  a  thunder-cloud  when  the 

storm  is  almost  o'er. 

3. 
Toward  the  mettled  stripling,  then,  the  heart  of  the  old 

man  yearn'd ; 
And   thus  —  while  Hermann  Van   Ghelt  once  more, 

with  a  restless  hunger,  turn'd 
From  the  grave  of  her  who  died  so  young,  to  his  books, 

and  lawyer's  gown, 
And  the  ceaseless  clangor  of  mind  with  mind  in  the 

close  and  wrangling  town  — 

They  two,  the  boy  and   the  grandsire,  lived   at   the 

manor-house,  and  grew, 
The  one  to  all  manly  arts  apace,  the  other  a  youth 

anew  — 
Pleased  with  the  boy's  free  spirit,  and  teaching  him,  step 

by  step,  to  wield 
The  mastery  over  living  things,  and  the  craft  of  flood 

and  field. 


20  ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 

Apt,  indeed,  was  the  scholar :  and  born  with  a  subtle 
spell  to  gain 

The  love  of  all  dumb  creatures  at  will;  now  lifting 
himself,  by  the  mane, 

Over  the  neck  of  the  three-year  colt,  for  a  random  bare 
back  ride ; 

Now  chasing  the  waves  on  the  rifted  beach  at  the  turn 
of  the  evening  tide. 

Proud,  in  sooth,  was  the  master  :  the  youngster,  he  oft 

and  roundly  swore, 
Was  fit  for  the  life  a  gentleman  led  in  the  lusty  days  of 

yore! 
And  he  took  the  boy  wherever  he  drove  —  to  a  county 

fair  or  race ; 
Gave  him  the  reins  and  watch'd  him  guide  the  span  at 

a  spanking  pace ; 

Taught  him  the  sportsman's  keen  delight :  to  swallow 

the  air  of  morn, 
And  start  the  whistling  quail  that  hides  and  feeds  in 

the  dewy  corn ; 


ALICE  OF  MONMOVTH.  21 

Or  in  clear  November  underwoods  to  bag  the  squirrels, 

and  flush 
The  brown-wing'd  mottled  partridge  awhir  from  her 

nest  in  the  tangled  brush ; 

Taught  him  the  golden  harvest  laws,  and  the  signs  of 
sun  and  shower, 

And  the  thousand  beautiful  secret  ways  of  graft  and 
fruit  and  flower ; 

Set  him  straight  in  his  saddle,  and  cheer'd  him  gallop 
ing  over  the  sand  ; 

Sail'd  with  him  to  the  fishing-shoals  and  placed  the 
helm  in  his  hand. 

Often  the  yacht,  with  all  sail  spread,  was  steer'd  by  the 

fearless  twain, 
Around  the  beacon  of  Sandy  Hook,  and  out  in  the  open 

main  ; 
Till  the  great  sea-surges  rolling  in,  as   south-by-east 

they  wore, 
Lifted  the  bows  of  the  dancing  craft,  and  the  buoyant 

hearts  she  bore. 


22  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

But  in  dreamy  hours,  which  young  men  know,  Hugh 

loved  with  the  tide  to  float 
Far  up  the  deep,  dark-channel'd  creeks,  alone  in  his 

two-oar'd  boat ; 
While  a  fiery  woven   tapestry  o'erhung  the   waters 

low, 
The  warp  of  the  frosted  chestnut,  the  woof  with  maple 

and  birch  aglow ; 

Picking  the  grapes  which  dangled  down ;  or  watching 
the  autumn  skies, 

The  osprey's  slow  imperial  swoop,  the  scrawny  bit 
tern's  rise; 

Nursing  a  longing  for  larger  life  than  circled  a  rural 
home, 

An  instinct  of  leadership  within,  and  of  action  yet  to 
come. 

4. 
Curtain  of  shifting  seasons  dropt  on  moor  and  meadow 

and  hall, 
Open  your  random  vistas  of  changes  that  come  with 

tune  to  all: 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  23 

Hugh  grown  up  to  manhood ;  foremost,  searching  the 

county  through, 
Of  the  Monmouth  youth,  in  birth  and  grace,  and  the 

strength  to  will  and  do. 

The  father,  past  the  prime  of  life,  and  his  temples 
fleck'd  with  toil ; 

A  bookman  still,  and  leaving  to  Hugh  the  care  of  stock 
and  soil. 

Hendrick  Van  Ghelt,  a  bow'd  old  man  in  a  fireside- 
corner  chair, 

Counting  the  porcelain  Scripture  tiles  which  frame  the 
chimney  there : 

The  shade  of  the  stalwart  gentleman  the  people  used  to 

know, 
Forgetful  of  half  the  present  scenes,  but  mindful  of 

long-ago ; 
Aroused,  mayhap,  by  growing  murmurs  of  Southern 

feud,  that  came 
And  woke  anew  in  his  fading  eyes  a  spark  of  their 

ancient  flame. 


24  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

5. 
Gazing  on  such  a  group  as  this,  folds  of  the  curtain 

drop, 
Hiding  the  grandsire's  form;  and  the  wheels  of  the 

sliding  picture  stop. 
Gone,  that  stout  old  Hendrick,  at  last !  and  from  miles 

around  they  came  — 
Farmer  and  squire,  and  whispering  youths,  recalling  his 

manhood's  fame. 

Dead :  and  the  Van  Ghelt  manor  closed,  and  the  home 
stead  acres  leased ; 

For  their  owner  had  moved  more  near  the  town,  where 
his  daily  tasks  increased ; 

Choosing  a  home  on  the  blue  Passaic,  whence  the 
Newark  spires  and  lights 

Were  seen,  and  over  the  salt  sea-marsh  the  shadows 
of  Bergen  Heights. 

Back  and  forth  from  his  city  work,  the  lawyer,  day  by 

day, 
With  the  press  of  eager  and  toiling  men,  follow'd  his 

wonted  way ; 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  25 

And  Hugh  —  he  dallied  with  life  at  home,  tending  the 

garden  and  grounds ; 
But  the  mansion  long'd  for  a  woman's  voice  to  soften  its 

lonely  sounds. 

"  Hugh,"  said  Hermann  Van  Ghelt,  at  length,  "  choose 

for  yourself  a  wife, 
Comely,  and  good,  and  of  birth  to  match  the  mother 

who  gave  you  life : 
No  words  of  woman  have  charm'd  my  ear  since  last  I 

heard  her  voice ; 
And  of  fairest  and  proudest  maids  her  son  should  make 

a  worthy  choice." 

But  now  the  young  man's  wandering  heart  from  the 

great  world  turn'd  away, 
To  long  for  the  healthful  Monmouth  meads,  the  shores 

of  the  breezy  bay ; 
And  often  the  scenes  and  mates  he  knew  in  boyhood  he 

sought  again, 
And  roam'd  thro'  the  well-known  woods,  and  lay  in  the 

grass  where  he  once  had  lain. 


26  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 


III. 


T  ADIES,  in  silks  and  laces, 
"^  Lunching  with  lips  agleam, 
Know  you  aught  of  the  places 
Yielding  such  fruit  and  cream  ? 


South  from  your  harbor-islands 
Glisten  the  Monmouth  hills  ; 

There  are  the  ocean  highlands, 
Lowland  meadows  and  rills, 

Berries  in  field  and  garden, 
Trees  with  their  fruitage  low, 

Maidens,  (asking  your  pardon,) 
Handsome  as  cities  show. 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  27 

Know  you  that,  night  and  morning, 

A  beautiful  water-fay, 
Cover'd  with  strange  adorning, 

Crosses  your  rippling  bay  ? 

Her  sides  are  white  and  sparkling ; 

She  whistles  to  the  shore ; 
Behind,  her  hair  is  darkling, 

And  the  waters  part  before. 

Lightly  the  waves  she  measures 

Up  to  wharves  of  the  town ; 
There,  unlading  her  treasures, 

Lovingly  puts  them  down. 

Come  with  me,  ladies ;  cluster 

Here  on  the  western  pier : 
Look  at  her  jewels'  lustre, 

Changed  with  the  changing  year ! 

First  of  the  months  to  woo  her, 

June  his  strawberries  flings 
Over  her  garniture, 

Bringing  her  exquisite  things ; 


28  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

Rifling  his  richest  casket ; 

Handing  her,  everywhere, 
Garnets  in  crate  and  basket ; 

Knowing  she  soon  will  wear 

Blackberry  jet  and  lava, 
Raspberries  ruby-red, 

Trinkets  that  August  gave  her, 
Over  her  toilet  spread. 

After  such  gifts  have  faded, 
Then  the  peaches  are  seen : 

Coral  and  ivory  braided, 
Pit  for  an  Indian  queen. 

And  September  will  send  her, 
Proud  of  his  wealth,  and  bold, 

Melons  glowing  in  splendor, 
Emeralds  set  with  gold. 

So  she  glides  to  the  Narrows, 
Where  the  forts  are  astir : 

Her  speed  is  a  shining  arrow's ! 
Guns  are  silent  for  her. 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  29 

So  she  glides  to  the  ringing 

Bells  of  the  belfried  town, 
Kissing  the  wharves,  and  flinging 

All  of  her  jewels  down. 

Whence  she  gathers  her  riches, 

Ladies,  now  would  you  see  ? 
Leaving  your  city  niches, 

Wander  awhile  with  me. 


30  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 


IV. 


1. 
fl^HE  strawberry  vines  lie  in  the  sun, 

Their  myriad  tendrils  twined  in  one  ; 
Spread  like  a  carpet  of  richest  dyes, 
The  strawberry-field  in  sunshine  lies. 
Each  timoroijs  berry,  blushing  red, 
Has  folded  the  leaves  above  her  head, 
The  dark,  green  curtains  gemm'd  with  dew ; 
But  each  blushful  berry,  peering  through, 
Shows  like  a  flock  of  the  underthread  — 
The  crimson  woof  of  a  downy  cloth 
Where  the  elves  may  kneel  and  plight  their  troth. 

2. 

Eun  thro'  the  rustling  vines,  to  show 
Each  picker  an  even  space  to  go, 
Leaders  of  twinkling  cord  divide 
The  field  in  lanes  from  side  to  side ; 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  31 

And  here  and  there  with  patient  care, 
Lifting  the  leafage  everywhere, 
Rural  maidens  and  mothers  dot 
The  velvet  of  the  strawberry-plot : 
Fair  and  freckled,  old  and  young, 
With  baskets  at  their  girdles  hung, 
Searching  the  plants  with  no  rude  haste  — 
Lest  berries  should  hang  unpick'd,  and  waste, 
Of  the  pulpy,  odorous,  hidden  quest, 
First  gift  of  the  fruity  months,  and  best. 

3. 

Crates  of  the  laden  baskets  cool 
Under  the  trees  at  the  meadow's  edge, 
Cover'd  with  grass  and  dripping  sedge, 
And  lily  leaves  from  the  shaded  pool ; 
Fill'd,  and  ready  to  be  borne 
To  market  before  the  morrow  morn. 
Beside  them,  gazing  at  the  skies, 
Hour  after  hour  a  young  man  lies. 
From  the  hillside,  under  the  trees, 
He  looks  across  the  field,  and  sees 
The  waves  that  ever  beyond  it  climb 
Whitening  the  rye-slope's  early  prime  ; 


32  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

At  times  he  listens,  listlessly, 
To  the  tree-toad  singing  in  the  tree, 
Or  sees  the  cat-bird  peck  his  fill 
With  feathers  adroop  and  roguish  bill. 
But  often,  with  a  pleased  unrest, 
He  lifts  his  glances  to  the  west, 
Watching  the  kirtles,  red  and  blue, 
Which  cross  the  meadow  in  his  view  ; 
And  he  hears,  anon,  the  busy  throng 
Sing  the  Strawberry-Pickers'  Song  : 

4 

Rifle  the  sweets  our  meadows  bear, 
Ere  the  day  has  reach'd  its  nooning ; 

While  the  skies  are  fair,  and  the  morning  air 
Awakens  the  thrush's  tuning. 

Softly  the  rivulet's  ripples  flow  ; 
Dark  is  the  grove  that  lovers  know  ; 
Here,  where  the  whitest  blossoms  blow, 

The  reddest  and  ripest  berries  grow. 

Bend  to  the  crimson  fruit,  whose  stain 
Is  glowing  on  lips  and  fingers ; 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  33 

The  sun  has  lain  in  the  leafy  plain, 
And  the  dust  of  his  pinions  lingers. 

Softly  the  rivulets  ripples  flow  ; 
Dark  is  the  grove  that  lovers  /mow  ; 
Here,  where  the  whitest  blossoms  blow, 
The  reddest  and  ripest  berries  grow. 

Gather  the  cones  which  lie  conceal'd, 

With  their  vines  your  foreheads  wreathing ; 

The  strawberry-field  its  sweets  shall  yield 
While  the  western  winds  are  breathing. 

Softly  the  rivulet's  ripples  flow  ; 
Dark  is  the  grove  that  lovers  know  ; 
Here,  where  the  whitest  blossoms  blow. 
The  reddest  and  ripest  berries  grow. 

5. 

From  the  far  hillside  comes  again 
An  echo  of  the  pickers'  strain. 
Sweetly  the  group  their  cadence  keep  ; 
Swiftly  their  hands  the  trailers  sweep ; 

3 


34  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

The  vines  are  stripp'd  and  the  song  is  sung, 
A  joyous  labor  for  old  and  young  — 
For  the  blithe  children,  gleaning  behind 
The  women,  marvellous  treasures  find. 

6. 

From  the  workers  a  maiden  parts  : 
The  baskets  at  her  waistband  shine 
With  berries  that  look  like  bleeding  hearts 
Of  a  hundred  lovers  at  her  shrine  ; 
No  eastern  girl  were  girdled  so  well 
With  silken  belt  and  silvery  bell. 
Her  slender  form  is  tall  and  strong ; 
Her  voice  was  the  sweetest  in  the  song ; 
Her  brown  hair,  fit  to  wear  a  crown, 
Loose  from  its  bonnet  ripples  down. 
Toward  the  crates,  that  lie  in  the  shade 
Of  the  chestnut  copse  at  the  edge  of  the  glade, 
She  moves  from  her  mates,  thro'  happy  rows 
Of  the  children  loving  her  as  she  goes. 
Alice,  our  Alice  !  one  and  all, 
Striving  to  stay  her  footsteps,  call : 
(For  children,  with  skilful  choice,  dispense 
The  largesse  of  their  innocence  ;) 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  35 

But  on,  with  a  sister's  smile,  she  moves 
Into  the  darkness  of  the  groves, 
And  deftly,  daintily,  one  by  one, 
Shelters  her  baskets  from  the  sun, 
Under  the  network,  fresh  and  cool, 
Of  lily  leaves  from  the  crystal  pool. 

7. 

Turning  her  violet  eyes,  their  rays 
Glisten'd  full  in  the  young  man's  gaze ; 
And  each  at  each,  for  a  moment's  space, 
Look'd  with  a  diffident  surprise. 
"  Heaven !  "  thought  Hugh, "  what  artless  grace 
That  laborer's  daughter  glorifies  ! 
I  never  saw  a  fairer  face, 
I  never  heard  a  sweeter  voice  ; 
And  oh !  were  she  my  father's  choice, 
My  father's  choice  and  mine  were  one 
In  the  strawberry-field  and  morning  sun." 


36  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 


V. 


T  OVE,  from  that  summer  morn 

-^  Melting  the  souls  of  these  two  ; 

Love,  which  some  of  you  know, 

Who  read  this  poem  to-day : 

Is  it  the  same  desire, 

The  strong,  ineffable  joy, 

Which  Jacob  and  Rachel  felt, 

When  he  served  her  father  long  years, 

And  the  years  were  swift  as  days  — 

So  great  was  the  love  he  bore  ? 

Race,  advancing  with  time, 

Growing  in  thought  and  deed, 

Mastering  land  and  sea, 

Say,  does  the  heart  advance, 

Are  its  passions  more  pure  and  strong  ? 

They,  like  Nature,  remain, 

No  more  and  no  less  than  of  yore. 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  37 

Whoso  conquers  the  earth, 
Winning  its  riches  and  fame, 
Comes  to  the  evening  at  last, 
The  sunset  of  three-score  years ; 
Confessing  that  Love  was  real, 
All  the  rest  was  a  dream  ! 
The  sum  of  his  gains  is  dross ; 
The  song  in  his  praise  is  mute  ; 
The  wreath  of  his  laurels  fades ; 
But  the  kiss  of  his  early  love 
Still  burns  on  his  trembling  lip, 
The  spirit  of  one  he  loved 
Hallows  his  dreams  at  night. 
A  little  while,  and  the  scenes 
Of  the  play  of  Life  are  closed ; 
Come,  let  us  rest  an  hour, 
And  by  the  pleasant  streams, 
Under  the  fresh,  green  trees, 
Let  us  walk  hand  in  hand, 
And  think  of  the  days  that  were. 


38  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 


VI. 


1. 

river  and  height  and  salty  moors  the  haze  of 
autumn  fell, 

And  the  cloud  of  a  troubled  joy  enwrapt  the  face  of 
Hugh  as  well : 

The  spell  of  a  secret  haunt  that  far  from  home  his  foot 
steps  drew ; 

A  love,  which  over  the  brow  of  youth  the  mask  of 
manhood  threw. 

Birds  of  the  air  to  the  father,  at  length,  the  common 

rumor  brought: 
"  Your  son,"  they  sang,  "  in  the  cunning  toils  of  a  rustic 

lass  is  caught !  " 
"  A  fit  betrothal,"  the  lawyer  said,  "  must  make  these 

follies  cease ; 
Which  shall  it  be  ?  —  the  banker's  ward  ?  —  Edith,  the 

judge's  niece  ?  " 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  39 

"  Father,  I  pray  "  —  said  Hugh  ;  "  O  yes  ! "  out-leapt 

the  other's  mood, 
"I  hear  of  your  wanton  loiterings  —  they  ill  become 

your  blood; 
If  you  hold  our  name  at  such  light  worth,  forbear  to 

darken  the  life 
Of  this  Alice  Dale  "  —  "  No,  Alice  Van  Ghelt !  father, 

she  is  my  wife." 

2. 

Worldlings,  who  say  the  eagle  should  mate  with  eagle, 

after  his  kind, 
Nor  have  learn'd  from  what  far  and  diverse  cliffs  the 

twain  each  other  find, 
Yours  is  the  old,  old  story,  of  age  forgetting  its  wiser 

youth  ; 
Of  eyes,  which  are  keen  for  others'  good  and  blind  to 

an  inward  truth. 

But  the  pride,  which  closed  the  father's  doors,  swell'd 

in  the  young  man's  veins, 

And  he  led  his  bride,  in  the  sight  of  all,  thro'  the  pleas- 
,     ant  Monmouth  lanes, 


40  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

To  the  little  farm  his  grandsire  gave,  years  since,  for  a 

birthday  gift ; 
Unto  such  havens  unforeseen  the  barks  of  our  fortune 

drift ! 

There,  for  a  happy  pastoral  year,  he  till'd  the  teeming 
field; 

Scatter'd  the  marl  above  his  land,  and  gather'd  the 
orchard's  yield ; 

And  Alice,  in  fair  and  simple  guise,  kiss'd  him  at  even- 
fall; 

And  her  face  was  to  him  an  angel's  face,  and  love  was 
all  in  all. 

—  What  is  this  light  in  the  southern  sky,  painting  a  red 
alarm  ? 

What  is  this  trumpet  call,  which  sounds  thro'  peaceful 
village  and  farm ; 

Jarring  the  sweet  idyllic  rest;  stilling  the  children's 
throng ; 

Hushing  the  cricket  on  the  hearth,  and  the  lovers'  even 
ing  song  ? 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  41 


vn. 


i. 

WAR!  war!  war! 

Manning  of  forts  on  land  and  ships  for  sea ; 
Innumerous  lips  that  speak  the  righteous  wrath 
Of  days  which  have  been  and  again  may  be  ; 
Flashing  of  tender  eyes  disdaining  tears  ; 
A  pause  of  men  with  indrawn  breath, 
Knowing  it  awful  for  the  people's  will 
Thus,  thus  to  end  the  mellow  years 
Of  harvest,  growth,  prosperity, 
And  bring  the  years  of  famine,  fire,  and  death, 
Tho'  fear  and  a  nation's  shame  are  more  awful  still. 

2. 

War !  war  !  war  ! 

A  thundercloud  in  the  South  in  the  early  Spring : 
The  launch  of  a  thunderbolt,  and  then, 


42  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

With  one  red  flare,  the  lightning  stretch'd  its  wing, 
And  a  rolling  echo  roused  a  million  men ! 
Then  the  ploughman  left  his  field  ; 
The  smith,  at  his  clanging  forge, 
Forged  him  a  sword  to  wield ; 
From  meadow,  and  mountain-gorge, 
And  the  western  plains,  they  came, 
Fronting  the  storm  and  flame. 
War  !  war  !  war  ! 
Heaven  aid  the  right ! 

God  nerve  the  hero's  arm  in  the  fearful  fight ! 
God  send  the  women  sleep,  in  the  long,  long  night, 
When  the  breasts  on  whose  strength  they  lean'd  shall 
heave  no  more. 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  43 


vm. 


i. 

PAKE  each  mother  to  her  son, 
Ere  an  ancient  field  was  won  : 
"  Spartan,  who  me  your  mother  call, 
Our  country  is  mother  of  us  all  ; 
In  her  you  breathe,  and  move,  and  are  ; 
In  peace  for  her  to  live  —  in  war 
For  her  to  die  —  is,  gloriously, 
A  patriot  to  live  and  die  !  " 

2. 

The  times  are  now  as  grand  as  then 
With  dauntless  women,  earnest  men  ; 
For  thus  the  mothers  whom  we  know 
Bade  their  sons  to  battle  go  ; 
And,  with  a  smile,  the  loyal  North 
Sent  her  million  freemen  forth. 


44  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

3. 

"  What  men  should  stronger-hearted  be 
Than  we,  who  dwell  by  the  open  sea  — 
Tilling  the  lands  our  fathers  won 
In  battle  on  the  Monmouth  Plains  ? 
Ah  !  a  memory  remains, 
Telling  us  what  they  have  done, 
Teaching  us  what  we  should  do. 
Let  us  send  our  rightful  share  — 
Hard-handed  yeomen,  horsemen  rare, 
A  hundred  riders  fleet  and  true." 

4. 

A  hundred  horsemen,  led  by  Hugh : 
"  Were  he  still  here,"  their  captain  thought, 
"  The  brave  old  man,  who  train'd  my  youth, 
What  a  leader  he  would  make 
Where  the  battle's  topmost  billows  break ! 
The  crimes,  which  brought  our  land  to  ruth, 
How  in  his  soul  they  would  have  wrought ! 
God  help  me,  no  deed  of  mine  shall  shame 
The  honor  of  my  grandsire's  name  ; 
And  my  father  shall  see  how  pure  and  good 
Kuns  in  these  veins  the  olden  blood." 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTE.  45 


Shore  and  inland  their  men  have  sent : 
Away,  to  the  mounted  regiment, 
The  silver-hazed  Potomac  heights, 
The  circling  raids,  the  hundred  fights, 
The  booth,  the  bivouac,  the  tent. 
Away,  from  the  happy  Monmouth  farms, 
To  noontide  marches,  night  alarms, 
Death  in  the  shadowy  oaken  glades, 
Emptied  saddles,  broken  blades, 
All  the  turmoil  that  soldiers  know 
Who  gallop  to  meet  a  mortal  foe. 
Some  to  conquer,  some  to  fall : 
War  hath  its  chances  for  one  and  all. 

6. 

Heroes,  who  render  up  their  lives 
On  the  country's  fiery  altar-stone  — 
They  do  not  offer  themselves  alone. 
What  shall  become  of  the  soldiers'  wives  ? 
They  stay  behind  in  the  lonely  cots, 
Weeding  the  humble  garden-plots  ; 


46  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

Some  to  speed  the  needle  and  thread, 
For  the  soldiers'  children  must  be  fed ; 
All  to  sigh,  thro'  the  toilsome  day, 
And  at  night  teach  lisping  lips  to  pray 
For  the  fathers  marching  far  away. 


ALICE   OF  MON MOUTH.  47    ( 


IX. 


1. 

and  flame  on  the  dark  frontier, 
Veiling  the  hosts  embattled  there  : 
Peace,  and  a  boding  stillness,  here, 
Where  the  wives  at  home  repeat  their  prayer. 

2. 

The  locusts  sing  a  plaintive  song, 
The  weary  August  days  are  long ; 
The  cattle  miss  their  master's  call 
When  they  see  the  sunset  shadows  fall. 
The  youthful  mistress,  at  even-tide, 
Stands  by  the  cedarn  wicket's  side, 
With  both  hands  pushing  from  the  front 
Her  hair,  as  those  who  listen  are  wont ; 
Gazing  toward  the  unknown  South, 
While  silent  whispers  part  her  mouth : 


48  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 


"  0,  if  a  woman  could  only  find 

Other  work  than  to  wait  behind, 

Thro'  midnight  dew  and  noonday  drouth  — 

To  wait  behind,  and  fear,  and  pray  ! 

O,  if  a  soldier's  wife  could  say  — 

'  Where  thou  goest,  I  will  go  ; 

Kiss  thee  ere  thou  meet'st  the  foe  ; 

Where  thou  lodgest,  worst  or  best, 

Share  and  soothe  thy  broken  rest  !  ' 

—  Alas,  to  stifle  her  pain  and  wait, 

This  was  ever  a  woman's  fate  ! 

But  the  lonely  hours  at  least  may  be 

Pass'd  a  little  nearer  thee, 

And  the  city  thou  guardest  with  thy  life, 

Thou'lt  guard  more  fondly  for  holding  thy  wife." 

4. 

Ah,  tender  heart  of  woman  leal, 
Supple  as  wax  and  strong  as  steel  ! 
Thousands  as  faithful  and  as  lone, 
Following  each  some  dearest  one, 
Found  in  those  early  months  a  home, 
Under  the  brightness  of  that  dome 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  49 

Whose  argent  arches  for  aye  enfold 
The  hopes  of  a  people  in  their  hold  — 
Irradiate,  in  the  sight  of  all 
"Who  guard  the  Capital's  outer  wall. 
Lastly  came  one,  amid  the  rest, 
Whose  form  a  sun-burnt  soldier  prest, 
As  lovers  embrace,  in  respite  lent 
From  unfulfill'd  imprisonment. 
And  Alice  found  a  new  content : 
Dearer  for  perils  that  had  been 
Were  halcyon  meetings,  far  between  ; 
Better,  for  dangers  yet  to  be, 
The  moments  she  still  his  face  could  see ; 
These,  for  the  pure  and  loving  wife, 
Were  the  silver  bars  that  mark'd  her  life, 
That  number'd  the  days  melodiously  ; 
While,  thro'  all  noble  daring,  Hugh 
From  a  Captain  to  a  Colonel  grew, 
And  his  praises  sweeten'd  every  tongue 
That  reach'd  her  ear  —  for  old  and  young 
Gave  him  the  gallant  leader's  due. 


50  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 


X. 


1. 
"ALIGHT  of  a  meteor  thro'  the  sky, 

Scattering  firebrands,  arrows  and  death 
A  baleful  year,  that  hurtled  by, 
While  ancient  kingdoms  held  their  breath. 

2. 

The  Capital  grew  aghast  with  sights 
Flash'd  from  the  lurid  river-heights, 
Full  of  the  fearful  things  sent  down, 
By  demons  haunting  the  middle  air, 
Into  the  hot,  beleaguer'd  town  — 
All  woful  sights  and  sounds,  which  seem 
The  fantasy  of  a  sickly  dream : 
Crowded  wickedness  everywhere ; 
Everywhere  a  stifled  sense 
Of  the  noonday-striding  pestilence  ; 


ALICE  OF  MON MOUTH.  51 

Every  church,  from  wall  to  wall, 
A  closely-mattrass'd  hospital ; 
And  ah  !  our  bleeding  heroes,  brought 
From  smouldering  fields  so  vainly  fought, 
Filling  each  place  where  a  man  could  lie 
To  gasp  a  dying  wish  —  and  die  ;. 
While  the  sombre  sky,  relentlessly, 
Cover'd  the  town  with  a  funeral-pall, 
A  death-damp,  trickling  funeral-pall. 

3. 

Always  the  dust  and  mire  ;  the  sound 
Of  the  rumbling  wagon's  ceaseless  round, 
The  cannon  jarring  the  trampled  ground. 
The  sad,  unvarying  picture  wrought 
Upon  the  pitying  woman's  heart 
Of  Alice,  the  Colonel's  wife,  and  taught 
Her  spirit  to  choose  the  better  part  — 
The  labor  of  loving  angels,  sent 
To  men  in  their  sore  encompassment. 
Daily  her  gentle  steps  were  bent 
Thro'  the  thin  pathways  which  divide 
The  patient  sufferers,  side  from  side, 
In  dolorous  wards,  where  Death  and  Life 


52  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

Wage  their  silent,  endless  strife  ; 

And  she  loosed  for  all  her  soothing  words, 

Sweet  as  the  songs  of  homestead  birds. 

Sometimes  that  utterance  musical 

On  the  soldier's  failing  sense  would  fall, 

Seeming,  almost,  a  prelude  given 

Of  whispers  that  calm  the  air  of  Heaven ; 

While  her  white  hand,  moistening  his  poor  lips 

With  the  draught  which  slakeless  fever  sips, 

Pointed  him  to  that  fount  above  — 

River  of  water  of  life  and  love  — 

Stream  without  price,  of  whose  purity 

Whoever  thirsteth  may  freely  buy. 

4. 

How  many  —  whom  in  their  mortal  pain 
She  tended  —  'twas  given  her  to  gain, 
Thro'  Him  who  died  upon  the  rood, 
For  that  divine  beatitude, 
Who  of  us  all  can  ever  know 
Till  the  golden  books  their  records  show  ? 
But  she  saw  their  dying  faces  light, 
And  felt  a  rapture  in  the  sight. 
And  many  a  sufferer's  earthly  life 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  53 

Thank'd  for  new  strength  the  Colonel's  wife ; 
Many  a  soldier  turn'd  his  head, 
Watching  her  pass  his  narrow  bed, 
Or,  haply,  his  feeble  frame  would  raise, 
As  the  dim  lamp  her  form  reveal'd ; 
And,  like  the  children  in  the  field, 
(For  soldiers  like  little  ones  become  — 
As  simple  in  heart,  as  frolicsome,) 
One  and  another  breath'd  her  name, 
Blessing  her  as  she  went  and  came. 

5. 

So,  thro'  all  actions  pure  and  good, 
Unknowing  evil,  shame,  or  fear, 
She  grew  to  perfect  ladyhood  — 
Unwittingly  the  mate  and  peer 
Of  the  proudest  of  her  husband's  blood. 


54  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH, 


XL 


1. 

f  IKE  an  affluent,  royal  town,  the  summer  camps 

Of  a  hundred  thousand  men  are  stretch'd  away. 
At  night,  like  multitudinous  city  lamps, 
Their  numberless  watch-fires  beacon,  clear  and  still, 
And  a  glory  beams  from  the  zenith  lit 
With  lurid  vapors  that  over  its  star-lights  flit ; 
But  wreaths  of  opaline  cloud  o'erhang,  by  day, 
The  crystal-pointed  tents,  from  hill  to  hill, 
From  vale  to  vale  —  until 
The  heavens  on  endless  peaks  their  curtain  lay. 
A  magical  city  !  spread  to-night 
On  hills  which  slope  within  our  sight : 
To-morrow,  as  at  the  waving  of  a  wand, 
Tents,  guidons,  bannerols,  are  moved  afar  — 
Rising  elsewhere,  as  rises  a  morning-star, 
Or  the  dream  of  Aladdin's  palace  in  fairy-land. 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  55 

2. 

Camp  after  camp,  like  marble  square  on  square ; 
Street  following  street,  with  many  a  park  between  ; 
Bright  bayonet-sparkles  in  the  tremulous  air ; 
Far-fading,  purple  smoke  above  their  sheen ; 
Green  central  fields  with  flags  like  flowers  abloom ; 
And,  all  about,  close-order'd  populous  life. 
But  here  no  festering  trade,  no  civic  strife  : 
Only  the  blue-clad  soldiers  everywhere, 
Waiting  to-morrow's  victory  or  doom  ; 
Men  of  the  hour,  to  whom  these  pictures  seem, 
Like  schoolboy  thoughts,  half-real,  half  a  dream. 

3. 

Camps  of  the  cavalry,  apart, 
Are  pitch'd  with  nicest  art 
On  hilly  suburbs  where  old  forests  grow. 
Here,  by  itself,  one  glimmers  thro'  the  pines  : 
One,  whose  high-hearted  chief  we  know  : 
A  thousand  men  leap  when  his  bugles  blow ; 
A  thousand  horses  curvet  at  his  lines, 
Pawing  the  turf;  among  them  come  and  go 
The  jacketed  troopers,  changed  by  wind  and  rain, 
Storm,  raid  and  skirmish,  sunshine,  midnight  dew, 
To  bronzed  men  who  never  ride  in  vain. 


56  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

4. 

In  the  great  wall-tent  at  the  head  of  the  square, 
The  Colonel  hangs  his  sword,  and  there 
Huge  logs  burn  high  in  front  at  the  close  of  the  day ; 
And  the  captains  gather  ere  the  long  tattoo, 
While  the  band  of  buglers  play. 
Then  come  the  tales  of  home  and  the  troopers'  song : 
Clear  over  the  distant  outposts  float  the  notes, 
And  the  lone  vidette  to  catch  them  listens  long ; 
And  the  officer  of  the  guard,  upon  his  .ound, 
Pauses,  to  hear  the  sound 
Of  the  chiming  chorus  pour'd  from  a  score  of  throats : 

5. 
Our  good  steeds  snuff  the  evening  air, 

Our  pulses  with  their  purpose  tingle  ; 
The  foeman's  fires  are  twinkling  there  ; 
He  leaps  to  hear  our  sabres  jingle  ! 

HALT  ! 

Each  carbine  sent  its  whizzing  ball : 
Now,  cling  !  clang  !  forward  all, 
Into  the  fight ! 


o 


Dash  on  beneath  the  smoking  dome  : 
Thro'  level  lightnings  gallop  nearer  ! 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  57 

One  look  to  Heaven  !    No  thoughts  of  home  : 
The  guidons  that  we  bear  are  dearer. 

CHARGE ! 

Cling  !  clang !  forward  all ! 
Heaven  help  those  whose  horses  fall : 
Cut  left  and  right ! 

They  flee  before  our  fierce  attack  ! 

They  fall !  they  spread  in  broken  surges. 
Now,  comrades,  bear  our  wounded  back, 
And  leave  the  foeman  to  his  dirges. 

WHEEL  ! 

The  bugles  sound  the  swift  recall : 
Cling  !  clang  !  backward  all ! 
Home,  and  good-night ! 


58  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 


XII. 


1. 

\T7HEN  April  rains,  and  the  great  spring-tide, 

Cover  the  lowlands  far  and  wide, 
And  eastern  winds  blow  somewhat  harsh 
Over  the  salt  and  mildew'd  marsh, 
Then  the  grasses  take  deeper  root, 
Sucking,  athirst  and  resolute  ; 
And  when  the  waters  eddy  away, 
Flowing  in  trenches  to  Newark  Bay, 
The  fibrous  blades  grow  rank  and  tall, 
And  from  their  tops  the  reed-birds  call. 
Five  miles  in  width  the  moor  is  spread ; 
Two  broad  rivers  its  borders  thread  ; 
The  schooners,  which  up  their  channels  pass, 
Seem  to  be  sailing  in  the  grass, 
Save  as  they  rise  with  the  moon-drawn  sea, 
Twice  in  the  day,  continuously. 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  59 

2. 

Gray  with  an  inward  struggle  grown, 
The  brooding  lawyer,  Hermann  Van  Ghelt, 
Lived  at  the  mansion-house,  alone  — 
But  a  chilling  cloud  at  his  bosom  felt, 
Like  the  fog  which  crept,  at  morn  and  night, 
Across  the  rivers  in  his  sight, 
And  rising,  left  the  moorland  plain 
Bare  and  spectral  and  cold  again. 
He  saw  the  one  tall  hill,  which  stood 
Huge  with  its  quarry  and  gloaming  wood, 
And  the  creeping  engines,  as  they  hist 
Thro'  the  dim  reaches  of  the  mist  — 
Serpents,  with  ominous  eyes  aglow, 
Thridding  the  grasses  to  and  fro ; 
And  he  thought  how  each  dark,  receding  train 
Carried  its  freight  of  joy  and  pain, 
On  toil's  adventure  and  fortune's  quest, 
To  the  troubled  city  of  unrest ; 
And  he  knew  that  under  the  desolate  pall 
Of  the  bleak  horizon,  skirting  all, 
The  burden'd  ocean  heaved,  and  roll'd 
Its  moaning  surges  manifold. 


60  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

3. 

'  Often  at  evening,  gazing  through 
The  eastward  windows  on  such  a  view, 
Its  sense  enwrapt  him  as  with  a  shroud ; 
Often  at  noon,  in  the  city's  crowd, 
He  saw,  as  'twere  in  a  mystic  glass, 
Unbidden  faces  before  him  pass  — 
A  soldier,  with  eyes  unawed  and  mild 
As  the  eyes  of  one  who  was  his  child  — 
A  woman's  visage,  like  that  which  blest 
A  year  of  his  better  years  the  best ; 
And  the  plea  of  a  voice,  remember'd  well, 
Deep  in  his  secret  hearing  fell. 
And  as  week  by  week  its  records  brought 
Of  heroes  fallen  as  they  fought, 
There  little  by  little  awakened 
In  the  lawyer's  heart  a  shapeless  dread, 
A  fear  of  the  tidings,  which  of  all 
On  ear  and  spirit  heaviest  fall  — 
Changeless  sentence  of  mortal  fate, 
Freezing  the  marrow  with  —  Too  Late ! 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH.  61 


XIII. 


1. 

nPHUS  —  when  ended  the  morning  tramp, 
•*•    And  the  regiment  came  back  to  camp, 
And  the  Colonel,  tho'  breathing  hard  with  pain, 
Was  carried  within  the  lines  again  — 
Thus  a  Color- Sergeant  told 
The  story  of  that  skirmish  bold : 

2. 

" '  Twas  an  hour  past  midnight,  twelve  hours  ago  — 

We  were  all  asleep,  you  know, 

Save  the  officer  on  his  rounds, 

And  the  guard-relief —  when  sounds 

The  signal-gun  !  once  —  twice  — 

Thrice  !  —  and  then,  in  a  trice, 

The  long  assembly-call  rang  sharp  and  clear, 

Till  'Boots  and  Saddles 'made  us  scamper  like  mice ! 


62  ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 

No  time  to  waste 

In  asking  whether  a  fight  was  near ; 
Over  the  horses  went  their  traps  in  haste  ; 
Not  ten  minutes  had  past 
Ere  we  stood  in  marching  gear, 
And  the  call  of  the  roll  was  follow'd  by  orders  fast : 
1  Prepare  to  mount ! ' 

1  Mount ! '  —  and  the  company  ranks  were  made  ; 
Then  in  each  rank,  by  fours,  we  took  the  count, 
And   the  head  of  the  column  wheel'd   for  the   long 
parade. 

3. 

"  There,  on  the  beaten  ground, 
The  regiment  form'd  from  right  to  left ; 
Our  Colonel,  straight  in  his  saddle,  look'd  around  — 
Reining  the  stallion  in,  that  felt  the  heft 
Of  his  rider,  and  stamp'd  his  foot,  and  wanted  to  dance. 
At  last  the  order  came  : 
1  By  twos  :  forward,  march ! '  —  and  the  same 
From  each  officer  in  advance ; 
And,  as  the  rear-guard  left  the  spot, 
We  broke  into  the  even  trot. 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 

4. 

"  *  Trot,  march ! '  —  two  by  two, 
In  the  dust  and  in  the  dew, 
Roads  and  open  meadows  through. 
Steadily  we  kept  the  tune 
Underneath  the  stars  and  moon. 
None,  except  the  Colonel,  knew 
What  our  Orders  were  to  do  ; 
Whether  on  a  forage-raid 
We  were  tramping,  boot  and  blade, 
Or  a  close  reconnoissance 
Ere  the  army  should  advance  ; 
One  thing  certain,  we  were  bound 
Straight  for  Stuart's  camping-ground. 
Plunging  into  forest-shade, 
Well  we  knew  each  glen  and  glade ! 
Sweet  they  smell'd  —  the  pine  and  oak, 
And  of  home  my  comrade  spoke. 
Tramp,  tramp,  out  again, 
Sheer  across  the  ragged  plain, 
Where  the  moonbeams  glaze  our  steel 
And  the  fresher  air  we  feel. 
Thus  a  triple  league,  and  more, 
Till  behind  us  spreads  the  gray 


64  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

Pallid  light  of  breaking  day, 
And  on  cloudy  Mils,  before, 
Rebel  camp-fires  smoke  away  ; 
Hard  by  yonder  clump  of  pines 
We  should  touch  the  rebel  lines  : 
1  Walk,  march  ! '  and,  softly  now, 
Gain  yon  hillock's  westward  brow. 

5. 
"'Halt!'    and   'Right   into   line !'  — There   on   the 

ridge 

In  battle-order  we  let  the  horses  breathe  ; 
The  Colonel  raised  his  glass,  and  scann'd  the  bridge, 
The  tents  on  the  bank  beyond,  the  stream  beneath. 
Just  then  the  sun  first  broke  from  the  redder  east, 
And  their  pickets  saw  five  hundred  of  us,  at  least, 
Stretch'd  like  a  dark  stockade  against  the  sky ; 
We  heard  their  long-roll  clamor  loud  and  nigh : 
In  half  a  minute,  a  rumbling  battery  whirl'd 
To  a  mound  in  front,  unlimbering  with  a  will, 
And  a  twelve-pound  solid  shot  came  right  along, 
Singing  a  devilish  morning-song, 

And  touch'd  my  comrade's  leg,  and  the  poor  boy  curl'd 
And  dropt  to  the  turf,  holding  his  bridle  still. 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  65 

Well,  we  moved  out  of  range  —  were  wheeling  round, 
I  think,  for  the  Colonel  had  taken  his  look  at  their 

ground, 

(Thus  he  was  order'd,  it  seems,  and  nothing  more  : 
Hardly  worth  coming  at  midnight  for  !) 
When,  over  the  bridge,  a  troop  of  the  enemy's  horse 
Dash'd  out  upon  our  course, 
Giving  us  hope  of  a  tussle  to  warm  our  blood. 
Then  we  cheer'd,  to  a  man,  that  our  early  call 
Hadn't  been  sounded  for  nothing,  after  all ; 
And  halting,   to   wait   their   movements,  the   column 

stood. 

6. 

"  Then  into  squadrons  we  saw  their  ranks  enlarge, 
And  slow  and  steady  they  moved  to  the  charge, 
Shaking  the  ground  as  they  came  in  carbine-range. 
1  Front  into  line  !  March  !  Halt !  Front ! ' 
Our   Colonel   cried ;   and   in   squadrons,  to  meet   the 

brunt, 

We  too  from  the  walk  to  the  trot  our  paces  change : 
'  Gallop,  march  ! '  —  and,  hot  for  the  fray, 
Pistols  and  sabres  drawn,  we  canter  away. 


66  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

7. 

"  Twenty  rods  over  the  slippery  clover 
We  gallop'd  as  gaily  as  lady  and  lover ; 
Held  the  reins  lightly,  our  good  weapons  tightly, 
Five  solid  squadrons  all  shining  and  sightly  ; 
Not  too  fast  —  half  the  strength  of  our  brave  steeds  to 

wasten, 
Not  too  slow  —  for  the  warmth  of  their  fire  made  us 

hasten, 

As  it  came  with  a  rattle  and  open'd  the  battle, 
Tumbling  from  saddles  ten  fellows  of  mettle  ; 
So    the    distance    grew   shorter,   their    sabres    shone 

broader ; 
Then   the  bugle's  wild  blare  and  the   Colonel's  loud 

order  — 

"  CHARGE  !  and  we  sprang,  while  the  far  echo  rang, 
And  their  bullets,  like  bees,  in  our  ears  fiercely  sang. 
Forward  we  strode  to  pay  what  we  owed, 
Right  at  the  head  of  their  column  we  rode ; 
Together  we  dash'd,  and  the  air  reel'd  and  flash'd ; 
Stirrups,  sabres  and  scabbards,  all  shatter'd  and.  crash'd, 
As  we  cut  in  and  out,  right  and  left,  all  about, 
Hand  to  hand,  blow  for  blow,  shot  for  shot,  shout  for 
shout, 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  67 

Till  the  earth  seem'd  to  boil  with  the  heat  of  our  toil ; 

But  in  less  than  five  minutes  we  felt  them  recoil, 

Heard  their  shrill  rally  sound,  and,  like  hares  from  the 
hound, 

Each  ran  for  himself:  one  and  all  fled  the  ground. 

Then  we  goaded  them  up  to  their  guns,  where  they 
cower'd, 

And  the  breeze  clear'd  the  field  where  the  battle-cloud 
lower'd. 

Three-score  of  them  lay,  to  teach  them  the  way 

Van  Ghelt  and  his  rangers  their  compliments  pay ; 

But  a  plenty,  I  swear,  of  our  saddles  were  bare : 

Friend  and  foe,  horse  and  rider,  lay  sprawl'd  every 
where  ; 

'Twas  hard  hitting,  you  see,  Sir,  that  gain'd  us  the 
day ! 

8. 

"  Yes,  they  too  had  their  say  before  they  fled, 
And  the  loss  of  our  Colonel  is  worse  than  all  the  rest. 
One  of  their  captains  aim'd  at  him,  as  he  led 
The  foremost  charge  —  I  shot  the  rascal  dead, 
But  the  Colonel  fell,  with  a  bullet  thro'  his  breast. 
We  lifted  him  from  the  mire,  when  the  field  was  won, 


68  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

And  their  captured  colors  shaded  him  from  the  sun 
In  the  farmer's  wagon  we  took  for  his  homeward  ride ; 
But  he  never  said  a  word,  nor  open'd  his  eyes, 
Till  we  reach'd  the  camp.    In  yon  hospital  tent  he  lies, 
And  his  poor  young  wife  will  come  to  watch  by  his 

side. 

The  surgeon  hasn't  found  the  bullet,  as  yet, 
But  he  says  it's  a  mortal  wound.     Where  will  you  get 
Another  such  man  to  lead  us,  if  he  dies  ?  " 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH.  69 


XIV. 


1. 

O  PRUNG  was  the  bow  at  last ; 

And  the  barb'd  and  pointed  dart  — 
Keen  with  stings  of  the  past, 
Barb'd  with  a  vain  remorse  — 
Clove  for  itself  a  course, 
Straight  to  the  father's  heart ; 
And  a  lonely  wanderer  stood, 
Mazed  in  a  mist  of  thought, 
On  the  edge  of  a  field  of  blood. 
—  For  a  battle  had  been  fought, 
And  the  cavalry  skirmish  was  but  a  wild  prelude 
To  the  broader  carnage  that  heap'd  a  field  in  vain 
A  terrible  battle  had  been  fought, 
Till  its  changeful  current  brought 
Tumultuous  angry  surges  roaring  back 
To  the  lines  where  our  army  had  lain. 


70  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

The  lawyer  —  driven  hard  by  an  inward  pain  — 
Was  crossing,  in  search  of  a  dying  son,  the  track 
Where  the  deluge  rose  and  fell,  and  its  stranded  wrack 
Had  sown  the  loathing  earth  with  human  slain. 

2. 

Friends  and  foes  —  who  could  discover  which, 
As  they  mark'd  the  zigzag,  outer  ditch, 
Or  lay  so  cold  and  still  in  the  bush, 
Fallen  and  trampled  down  in  the  last  wild  rush  ? 
Then  the  shatter'd  forest  trees  ;  the  clearing  there 
Where  a  battery  stood  ;  dead  horses,  pawing  the  air 
With  horrible  upright  hoofs  ;  a  mangled  mass 
Of  wounded  and  stifled  men  in  the  low  morass ; 
And  the  long  trench  dug  in  haste  for  a  burial-pit, 
Whose  yawning  length  and  breadth  all  comers  fit. 

3. 

And  over  the  dreadful  precinct,  like  the  lights 
That  flit  thro'  graveyard  walks  in  dismal  nights, 
Men  with  lanterns  were  groping  among  the  dead, 
Holding  the  flame  to  every  hueless  face, 
And  bearing  those,  whose  life  had  not  wholly  fled, 
On  stretchers,  that  look'd  like  biers,  from  the  ghastly 
place. 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  71 

4. 

The  air  above  seem'd  heavy  with  errant  souls, 
•Dense  with  ghosts  from  those  gory  forms  arisen  — 
Each  rudely  driven  from  its  prison, 
'Mid  the  harsh  jar  of  rattling  musket-rolls, 
And  quivering  throes,  and  unexpected  force ; 
In  helpless  waves  adrift  confusedly, 
Freighting  the  sombre  haze  without  resource. 
Thro'  all  there  trickled,  from  the  pitying  sky, 
An  infinite  mist  of  tears  upon  the  ground, 
Muffling  the  groans  of  anguish  with  its  sound. 

.  5. 

On  the  borders  of  such  a  land,  on  the  bounds  of  Death, 
The  stranger,  shuddering,  moved  as  one  who  saith : 
"  God  !  what  a  doleful  clime,  a  drear  domain !  " 
And  onward,  struggling  with  his  pain, 
Traversed  the  endless  camp-fires,  spark  by  spark, 
Past  sentinels  that  challenged  from  the  dark, 
Guided  thro'  camp  and  camp,  to  one  long  tent 
Whose  ridge  a  flying  bolt  from  the  field  had  rent, 
Letting  the  midnight  mist,  the  battle  din, 
Fall  on  the  hundred  forms  that  writhed  within. 


72  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

6. 

Beyond  the  gaunt  Zouave  at  the  nearest  cot, 
And  the  bugler  shot  in  the  arm,  who  lay  beside  — 
Looking  down  at  the  wounded  spot 
Even  then,  for  all  the  pain,  with  boyish  pride  — 
And  a  score  of  men,  with  blankets  open'd  wide, 
Showing  the  gory  bandages  which  bound 
The  paths  of  many  a  deadly  wound, 
—  Over  all  these  the  stranger's  vision  sped 
To  one  low  stretcher,  at  whose  head 
A  woman,  bow'd  and  brooding,  sate, 
As  sit  the  angels  of  our  fate, 
Who,  motionless,  our  births  and  deaths  await. 
He  whom  she  tended  moan'd  and  tost; 
Restless,  as  some  laborious  vessel,  lost 
Close  to  the  port  for  which  we  saw  it  sail, 
Groans  in  the  long  perpetual  gale  ; 
But  she,  that  watch'd  the  storm,  forbore  to  weep. 
Sometimes  the  stranger  saw  her  move 
To  others,  who  also  with  their  anguish  strove ; 
But  ever  again  her  constant  footsteps  turn'd 
To  one  who  made  sad  mutteririgs  in  his  sleep ; 
Ever  she  listen'd  to  his  breathings  deep, 
Or  trimm'd  the  midnight  lamp  that  feebly  burn'd. 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH.  73 


XV. 


T  EANING  her  face  on  her  hand 

She  sat  by  the  side  of  Hugh, 
Silently  watching  him  breathe, 
As  a  lily  curves  its  grace 
Over  the  broken  form 
Of  the  twin  which  stood  by  its  side. 
A  glory  upon  her  head 
Trail'd  from  the  light  above, 
Gilding  her  tranquil  hair 
In  ripples  that  faded  out 
Where  a  shadow  hid  the  floor. 
There  she  sat  in  a  trance, 
And  her  soul  flow'd  thro'  the  past, 
As  a  river,  day  and  night, 
Passes  thro'  changeful  shores  — r- 
Sees,  on  the  two-fold  bank, 
Meadow  and  mossy  grange, 


74  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

Castles  on  hoary  crags, 

Forests,  and  fortress'd  towns, 

And  shrinks  from  the  widening  bay, 

And  the  darkness  which  overhangs 

The  unknown,  limitless  sea. 

Was  it  a  troubled  dream, 

All  that  the  stream  of  her  life 

Had  mirror'd  along  its  course  ? 

All  —  from  that  summer  morn 

When  she  seem'd  to  meet  in  the  field 

One  whom  she  vow'd  to  love, 

And  with  whom  she  wander'd  thence, 

Leaving  the  home  of  her  youth  ? 

Were  they  visions  indeed  — 

The  pillars  of  smoke  and  flame, 

The  sound  of  a  hundred  fights, 

The  grandeur,  and  ah !  the  gloom, 

The  shadows  which  circled  her  now, 

And  the  wraith  of  the  one  she  loved 

Gliding  away  from  her  grasp, 

Vanishing  swiftly  and  sure  ? 

Yes,  it  was  all  a  dream  ; 

And  the  strange,  sad  man,  who  moved 

To  the  other  side  of  the  couch, 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  75 

Bending  over  it  long, 
Pressing  his  hand  on  his  heart, 
And  gazing,  anon,  in  her  eyes  — 
He,  with  his  scanty  hair, 
And  pallid,  repentant  face, 
He,  too,  was  a  voiceless  dream, 
A  vision  like  all  the  rest ; 
He  with  the  rest  would  fade 
When  the  day  should  dawn  again, 
When  the  spectral  mist  of  night, 
Fused  with  the  golden  morn, 
Should  melt  in  the  eastern  sky. 


76  ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 


XVI. 


1. 

"  O  TE ADY !  forward  the  squadron ! "  cries 

The  dying  soldier,  and  strives  amain 
To  rise  from  the  pillow  and  his  pain. 
Wild  and  wandering  are  his  eyes, 
Painting  once  more,  on  the  empty  air, 
The  wrathful  battle's  wavering  glare. 
"  Hugh  !  "  said  Alice,  and  check'd  her  fear, 
"  Speak  to  me,  Hugh ;  your  father  is  here." 
"  Father !  what  of  my  father  ?  he 
Is  anything  but  a  father  to  me  ; 
What  need  I  of  a  father,  when 
I  have  the  hearts  of  a  thousand  men  ?  " 
"  —  Alas,  Sir,  he  knows  not  me  nor  you ! " 
And  with  caressing  words,  the  twain  — 
The  man  with  all  remorsefulness, 
The  woman  with  loving  tenderness  — 


ALICE  OF  MON MOUTH.  77 

Sooth'd  the  soldier  to  rest  anew, 
And,  as  the  madness  left  his  brain, 
Silently  watch'd  his  sleep  again. 

2. 

And  again  the  father  and  the  wife, 
Counting  the  precious  sands  of  life, 
Look'd  each  askance,  with  those  subtle  eyes, 
Which  probe  thro'  all  human  mysteries 
And  all  hidden  motives  fathom  well ; 
But  the  mild  regard  of  Alice  fell, 
Meeting  the  other's  contrite  glance, 
On  his  meek  and  furrow'd  countenance, 
Scathed,  as  it  seem'd,  with  troubled  thought : 
"  Surely  good  angels  have  with  him  wrought," 
She  murmur'd,  and  halted,  even  across 
The  sorrowful  threshold  of  her  loss, 
To  pity  his  thin  and  changing  hair, 
And  her  heart  forgave  him,  unaware. 

3. 

And  he  —  who  saw  how  she  still  represt 
A  drear  foreboding  within  her  breast, 
And,  by  her  wifehood's  nearest  right, 


78  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

Ever  more  closely  thro'  the  night, 
Clave  unto  him  whose  quicken'd  breath 
Came  like  a  waft  from  the  realm  of  Death  — 
He  felt  what  a  secret,  powerful  tie 
Bound  them  in  one,  mysteriously. 
He  studied  her  features,  as  she  stood 
Lighting  the  shades  of  that  woful  place 
With  the  presence  of  her  womanhood, 
And  thought  —  as  the  dying  son  had  thought 
When  her  beauty  first  his  vision  caught  — 
"  I  never  saw  a  fairer  face ; 
I  never  heard  a  sweeter  voice  !  " 
And  a  sad  remembrance  thridded  fast 
Thro'  all  the  labyrinth  of  the  past, 
Till  he  said,  as  the  scales  fell  off  at  last, 
"  How  could  I  blame  him  for  his  choice  ?  " 
Then  he  look'd  upon  the  sword,  which  lay 
At  the  headboard,  under  the  night-lamp's  ray  - 
He  saw  the  coat,  the  stains,  the  dust, 
The  gilded  eagles  worn  with  rust, 
The  swarthy  forehead  and  matted  hair 
Of  the  strong,  brave  hero  lying  there  — 
And  he  felt  how  gently  Hugh  held  command, 
The  life  how  gallant,  the  death  how  grand  ; 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  79 

And  with  trembling  lips,  and  the  words  that  choke, 
And  the  tears  which  burn  the  cheek,  he  spoke : 
"  Where  is  the  father  who  would  not  joy 
In  the  manhood  of  such  a  noble  boy  ? 
This  life,  which  had  being  thro'  my  own, 
Was  a  better  life  than  I  have  known ; 

0,  that  its  fairness  should  be  earth, 
Ere  I  could  prize  it  at  its  worth  ! " 

"  Too  late  !  too  late  !  "  —  he  made  his  moan  — 
"  I  find  a  daughter,  and  her  alone. 
He  deem'd  you  worthy  to  bear  his  name, 
His  spotless  honor,  his  lasting  fame  ; 

1,  who  have  wrong'd  you,  bid  you  live 
To  comfort  the  lonely  —  and  forgive." 

4. 

Dim  and  silvery  from  the  east, 
The  infant  light  of  another  morn 
Over  the  stirring  camps  was  borne  ; 
But  the  soldier's  pulse  had  almost  ceased, 
And  there  crept  upon  his  brow  the  change  — 
Ah,  how  sudden :  alas,  how  strange  ! 
Yet  again  his  eyelids  open'd  wide, 
And  his  glances  moved  to  either  side, 


80  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

This  time  with  a  clear  intelligence 
Which  took  all  objects  in  its  sense, 
A  power  to  comprehend  the  whole 
Of  the  scene  that  girded  his  passing  soul. 
The  father,  who  saw  it,  slowly  drew 
Nearer  to  her  that  wept  anew, 
And  gather'd  her  tenderly  in  his  hold  — 
As  mortals  their  precious  things  enfold, 
Grasping  them  late  and  sure  ;  and  Hugh 
Gazed  on  the  two  a  space,  and  smiled 
With  the  look  he  wore  when  a  little  child : 
A  smile  of  pride  and  peace,  that  meant 
A  free  forgiveness  —  a  full  content ; 
Then  his  clouding  sight  an  instant  clung 
To  the  flag  whose  stars  above  him  hung, 
And  his  blunted  senses  seem'd  to  hear 
The  long  reveillee  sounding  near  ; 
But  the  ringing  clarion  could  not  vie 
With  the  richer  notes  which  fill'd  his  ear, 
Nor  the  breaking  morn  with  that  brighter  sky. 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  81 


XVII. 


1. 

"YT7EAR  no  armor,  timid  heart ; 

Fear  no  keen  misfortune's  dart, 
Want,  nor  scorn,  nor  secret  blow 
Dealt  thee  by  thy  mortal  foe. 

2. 

Let  the  fates  their  weapons  wield, 
For  a  wondrous  woven  shield 
Shall  be  given  thee,  ere  long. 
Mesh  of  gold  were  not  so  strong ; 
Not  so  soft  were  silken  shred ; 
Not  so  fine  the  spider's  thread 
Barring  the  enchanted  door 
In  that  tale  of  ancient  lore, 
Guarding,  silently  and  well, 
All  within  the  mystic  cell. 


82  ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 

Such  a  shield,  where'er  thou  art, 
Shall  be  thine,  O  wounded  heart ! 
From  the  ills  that  compass  thee 
Thou  behind  it  shalt  be  free  ; 
Envy,  slander,  malice,  all 
Shall  withdraw  them  from  thy  —  Pall. 

3. 

Build  no  house  with  patient  care, 
Fair  to  view,  and  strong  as  fair ; 
Wall'd  with  noble  deeds'  renown  ; 
Shining  over  field  and  town, 
Seen  from  land  and  sea  afar, 
Proud  in  peace,  secure  in  war. 
For  the  moments  never  sleep, 
Building  thee  a  castle-keep  — 
Proof  alike  'gainst  heat  and  cold, 
Earthly  sorrows  manifold, 
Sickness,  failure  of  thine  ends, 
And  the  falling  off  of  friends. 
Treason,  want,  dishonor,  wrong, 
None  of  these  shall  harm  thee  long. 
Every  day  a  beam  is  made ; 
Hour  by  hour  a  stone  is  laid. 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

Back  the  cruellest  shall  fall 
From  the  warder  at  the  wall ; 
Foeman  shall  not  dare  to  tread 
On  the  ramparts  o'er  thy  head  ; 
Dark  triumphant  flags  shall  wave 
From  the  fastness  of  thy  —  Grave. 


84  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 


XVIII. 


1. 

npHERE'S  an  hour,  at  the  fall  of  night,  when  the 

blissful  souls 

Of  those  who  were  dear  in  life  seem  close  at  hand ; 
There's  a  holy  midnight  hour,  when  we  speak  their 

names 

In  pauses  between  our  songs  on  the  trellis'd  porch, 
And  we  sing  the  hymns  which  they  loved,  and  almost 

know 
Their   phantoms   are   somewhere   with  us,   filling   the 

gaps, 

The  sorrowful  chasms  left  when  they  pass'd  away ; 
And  we  seem,  in  the  hush  of  our  yearning  voices,  to 

hear 
Their  warm,  familiar  breathing  somewhere  near. 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  85 

2. 

At  such  an  hour  —  when  again  the  Autumn  haze 
Silver'd  the  moors,  and  the  new  moon  peer'd,  from  the 

west, 

Over  the  blue  Passaic,  and  the  mansion  shone 
Clear  and  white  on  the  ridge  which  skirts  the  stream  — 
At  the  twilight  hour  a  man  and  a  woman  sat 
On  the  open  porch,  in  the  garb  of  those  who  mourn. 
Father  and  daughter  they  seem'd  ;  and  with  thoughtful 

eyes, 
Silent,  and  full  of  the  past,  they  watch'd  the  skies. 


86  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 


XIX. 


C ILENT  they  were,  not  sad,  for  the  sod,  that  covers 
the  grave 

Of  those  we  have  given  to  fame,  smells  not  of  the  hate 
ful  mould, 

But  of  roses  and  fragrant  ferns,  while  marvellous  im 
mortelles 

Twine  in  glory  above,  and  their  graces  give  us  joy. 

Silent,  but  oh !  not  sad :  for  the  babe  on  the  couch 
within 

Drank  at  the  mother's  breast,  till  the  current  of  life, 
outdrawn, 

Open'd  inflowing  currents  of  faith  and  sweet  content ; 

And  the  gray-hair'd  man,  repenting  in  tears  the  foolish 
past, 

Had  seen  in  the  light  from  those  inscrutable  infant 
eyes  — 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  87 

Fresh  from  the  unknown  world  —  the  glimpses  which, 

long  ago, 
Gladden'd  his  golden  youth,  and  had  found  his  soul  at 

peace. 


88  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 


XX. 


1. 

r  ASTLY  the  moon  went  down ;  like  burnish'd  steel 

The  infinite  ether  wrapt  the  crispy  air. 
Then,  arm  in  arm  on  the  terrace-walk,  the  pair 
Moved  in  that  still  communion  —  where  we  feel 
No  need  of  audible  questions  and  replies, 
But  mutual  pulses  all  our  thoughts  reveal ; 
And,  as  they  turn'd  to  leave  the  outer  night, 
Far  in  the  cloudless  North,  a  radiant  sight 
Stay'd  their  steps  for  a  while  and  held  their  eyes. 

2. 

There,  thro'  the  icy  mail  of  the  boreal  heaven, 
Two-edged  and  burning  swords  by  unseen  hands 
Were  thrust,  till  a  climbing  throng  its  path  had  riven 
Straight  from  the  Pole,  and,  over  seas  and  lands, 
Push'd  for  the  zenith,  while  from  east  to  west 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  89 

Flamed  many  a  towering  helm  and  gorgeous  crest ; 
And  then  —  a  rarer  pageant  than  the  rest  — 
An  angrier  light  glared  from  the  southern  sky, 
As  if  the  austral  trumpets  made  reply, 
And  the  wrath  of  a  challenged  realm  had  swiftly  tost 
On  the  empyrean  the  flags  of  another  host : 
Pennons  with  or  and  scarlet  blazing  high, 
Crimson  and  orange  banners  proudly  crost ; 
While  thro'  the  environ'd  space,  that  lay  between 
Their  adverse  fronts,  the  ether  seem'd  to  tremble, 
Shuddering  to  view  such  ruthless  foes  assemble, 
And  one  by  one  the  stars  withdrew  their  sheen. 

3. 

The  two,  enrapt  with  such  a  vision,  saw 
Its  ominous  surges,  dense,  prismatic,  vast, 
Heaved  from  the  round  horizon  ;  and  in  awe, 
Musing  awhile,  were  silent.     Till  at  last 
The  younger,  fair  in  widow's  garments,  spoke  : 
"  See,  father,  how,  from  either  pole, 
The  deep,  innumerous  columns  roll ; 
As  if  the  angelic  tribes  their  concord  broke, 
And  the  fierce  war  that  scathes  our  land  had  spread 
Above,  and  the  very  skies  with  ire  were  red  ! " 


90  ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 

4. 

Even  as  she  spoke,  there  shone 
High  in  the  topmost  zenith  a  central  spark, 
A  luminous  cloud  that  glow'd  against  the  dark  ; 
Its  halo,  widening  toward  either  zone, 
Took  on  the  semblance  of  a  mystic  hand 
Stretch'd  from  an  unknown  height :  and  lo  !  a  baud 
Of  scintillant  jewels  twined  around  the  wrist, 
Sapphire  and  ruby,  opal,  amethyst, 
Turquoise,  and  diamond,  link'd  with  flashing  joints. 
Its  wide  puissant  reach  began  to  clasp, 
In  countless  folds,  the  interclashing  points 
Of  outshot  light,  gathering  their  angry  hues  — 
North,  south,  east,  west  —  with  noiseless  grasp, 
By  some  divine,  resistless  law, 
Till  everywhere  the  wondering  watchers  saw 
A  thousand  colors  blend  and  interfuse, 
In  aureate  wave  on  wave  ascending  higher, 
Immeasurable,  white,  a  spotless  fire  : 
And,  glory  circling  glory  there,  behold 
Gleams  of  the  heavenly  city  wall'd  with  gold  ! 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  91 

5. 

"  Daughter,"  the  man  replied,  (his  face  was  bright 
With  the  effulgent  reflex  of  that  light,) 
"  The  time  shall  come,  by  merciful  Heaven  will'd, 
When  these  celestial  omens  shall  be  fulfill'd, 
Our  strife  be  closed  and  the  nation  purged  of  sin, 
And  a  pure  and  holier  union  shall  begin  ; 
And  a  jarring  race  be  drawn,  throughout  the  land, 
Into  new  brotherhood  by  some  strong  hand ; 
And  the  baneful  glow  and  splendor  of  war  shall  fade 
In  the  whiter  light  of  love,  that,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Shall  soften  the  rage  of  hosts  in  arms  array'd, 
And  melt  into  share  and  shaft  each  battle-blade, 
And  brighten  the  hopes  of  a  people  great  and  free. 
But  in  the  story  told  of  a  nation's  woes, 
Of  the  sacrifices  made  for  a  century's  fault, 
The  fames  of  fallen  heroes  shall  ever  shine, 
Serene,  and  high,  and  crystalline  as  those 
Fair  stars,  which  reappear  in  yonder  vault ; 
In  the  country's  heart  their  written  names  shall  be, 
Like  that  of  a  single  one  in  mine  and  thine. 


II. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


ALECTRY6N. 


f^\  REAT  ARES,  whose  tempestuous  godhood  found 

Delight  in  those  thick-tangled  solitudes 
Of  Hebrus,  water'd  tracts  of  rugged  Thrace  — 
Great  Ares,  scouring  the  Odrysian  wilds, 
There  met  Alectryon,  a  Thracian  boy, 
Stalwart  beyond  his  years,  and  swift  of  foot 
To  hunt  from  morn  till  eve  the  white-tooth'd  boar. 
"  What  hero,"  said  the  war-God,  "  join'd  his  blood 
With  that  of  Hremian  nymph,  to  make  thy  form 
So  fair,  thy  soul  so  daring,  and  thy  thews 
So  lusty  for  the  contest  on  the  plains 
Wherein  the  fleet  Odrysae  tame  their  steeds  ?  " 

From  that  time  forth  the  twain  together  chased 
The  boar,  or  made  their  coursers  cleave  the  breadth 
Of  yellow  Hebrus,  and,  thro'  vales  beyond, 


96  POEMS. 

Drove  the  hot  leopard  foaming  to  his  lair. 

And  day  by  day  Alectryon  dearer  grew 

To  the  God's  restless  spirit,  till  from  Thrace 

He  bore  him,  even  to  Olympos ;  there 

Before  him  set  immortal  food  and  wine, 

That  fairer  youth  and  lustier  strength  might  serve 

His  henchman ;  bade  him  bear  his  arms,  and  cleanse 

The  crimson'd  burnish  of  his  brazen  car : 

So  dwelt  the  Thracian  youth  among  the  Gods. 

There  came  a  day  when  Are's  left  at  rest 
His  spear,  and  smooth'd  his  harmful,  unhelm'd  brow, 
Calling  Alectryon  to  his  side,  and  said : 
"  The  shadow  of  Olympos  longer  falls 
Thro'  misty  valleys  of  the  lower  world  ; 
The  Earth  shall  be  at  peace  a  summer's  night ; 
Men  shall  have  calm,  and  the  unconquer'd  host 
Peopling  the  walls  of  Troas,  and  the  tribes 
Of  Greece,  shall  sleep  sweet  sleep  upon  their  arms ; 
For  Aphrodite,  queen  of  light  and  love, 
Awaits  me,  blooming  in  the  House  of  Fire, 
Girt  with  the  cestus,  infinite  in  grace, 
Dearer  than  battle  and  the  joy  of  war  : 
She,  for  whose  charms  I  would  renounce  the  sword 


ALECTRYUN.  97 

Forever,  even  godhood,  would  she  wreathe 
My  brows  with  myrtle,  dwelling  far  from  Heaven. 
Hephaestos,  the  lame  cuckold,  unto  whose 
Misshapen  squalor  Zeus  hath  given  my  queen, 
To-night  seeks  Lemnos,  and  his  sooty  vault 
Roof  'd  by  the  roaring  surge ;  wherein,  betimes, 
He  and  his  Cyclops  pound  the  ringing  iron, 
Forging  great  bolts  for  Zeus,  and  welding  mail, 
White-hot,  in  shapes  for  Heroes  and  the  Gods. 
Do  thou,  Alectryon,  faithful  to  my  trust, 
Hie  with  me  to  the  mystic  House  of  Fire. 
Therein,  with  wine  and  fruitage  of  her  isle, 
Sweet  odors,  and  all  rarest  sights  and  sounds, 
My  Paphian  mistress  shall  regale  us  twain. 
But  when  the  feast  is  over,  and  thou  see'st 
Ares  and  Aphrodite  pass  beyond 
The  portals  of  that  chamber,  whence  all  winds 
Of  love  flow  ever  toward  the  four  fold  Earth, 
Watch  by  the  entrance,  sleepless,  while  we  sleep  ; 
And  warn  us  ere  the  glimpses  of  the  Dawn ; 
Lest  Helios,  the  spy,  may  peer  within 
Our  windows,  and  to  Lemnos  speed  apace, 
In  envy  clamoring  to  the  hobbling  smith, 
Hephsestos,  of  the  wrong  I  do  his  bed." 


98  POEMS. 

Thus  Ares ;  and  the  Thracian  boy,  well-pleased, 
Swore  to  be  faithful  to  his  trust,  and  liege 
To  her,  the  perfect  queen  of  light  and  love. 
So  saying,  they  reach'd  the  fiery,  brazen  gates, 
Encolumn'd  high  by  Heaven's  artisan, 
Hephasstos,  rough,  begrim'd,  ancl  halt  of  foot  — 
Yet  unto  whom  was  Aphrodite  given 
By  Zeus,  because  from  his  misshapen  hands 
All  shapely  things  found  being ;  but  the  gift 
Brought  him  no  joyance,  nor  made  pure  his  fame, 
Like  those  devices  which  he  wrought  himself, 
Grim,  patient,  unbeloved. 

There  pass'd  they  in 
At  portals  of  the  high,  celestial  House, 
And  on  beyond  the  starry-golden  court, 
Thro'  amorous  hidden  ways,  and  winding  paths 
Set  round  with  splendors,  to  the  spangled  hall 
Of  secret  audience  for  noble  guests. 
Here  Charis  labor'd,  so  Hephasstos  bade, 
Moulding  the  room's  adornments ;  here  she  built 
Low  couches,  framed  in  ivory,  overlain 
With  skins  of  pard  and  panther,  and  the  fleece 
Of  sheep  which  graze  the  low  Hesperian  isles ; 


ALECTRYON.  99 

And  in  the  midst  a  cedarn  table  spread, 
Whereon  the  loves  of  all  the  elder  Gods 
Were  wrought  in  gold  and  silver ;  and  the  light 
Of  quenchless  rubies  sparkled  over  all. 
Thus  far  came  Ares  and  Alectryon, 
First  leaving  shield  and  falchion  at  the  door, 
That  nought  of  violence  should  haunt  that  air 
Serene,  but  laughter-loving  peace,  and  joys 
The  meed  of  Gods,  once  given  men  to  know. 

Then,  from  her  da'is  in  the  utmost  hall, 
Shone  toward  them  Aphrodite,  not  by  firm 
Imperial  footfalls,  but  in  measureless 
Procession,  even  as,  wafted  by  her  doves, 
She  kiss'd  the  faces  of  the  yearning  waves 
From  Cyprus  to  the  high  Thessalian  mount, 
Claiming  her  throne  in  Heaven ;  so  light  she  stept, 
Untended  by  her  Graces  ;  only  he, 
Eros,  th'  eternal  child,  with  welcomings 
Sprang  forward  to  Ares,  like  a  beam  of  light 
Flash'd  from  a  coming  brightness,  ere  it  comes  ; 
And  the  ambrosial  mother  to  his  glee 
Join'd  her  own  joy,  coy  as  she  glided  near 
Ares,  till  Ares  closed  her  in  his  arms, 


100  POEMS. 

An  instant,  with  the  perfect  love  of  Gods. 
And  the  wide  chamber  gleam'd  with  their  delight, 
And  infinite  tinkling  laughters  rippled  through 
Far  halls,  wherefrom  no  boding  echoes  came. 

But  when  the  passion  of  their  meeting  fell 
To  dalliance,  the  mighty  lovers,  sunk 
Within  those  ivory  couches  golden-fleeced, 
Made  wassail  at  the  wondrous  board,  and  held 
Sweet  stolen  converse  till  the  middle  night. 
And  soulless  servitors  came  gliding  in, 
Handmaidens,  wrought  of  gold,  the  marvellous  work 
Of  lame  Hephosstos  ;  having  neither  will, 
Nor  voice,  yet  bearing,  on  their  golden  trays, 
Lush  fruits  and  Cyprian  wine  and,  intermixt, 
Olympian  food  and  nectar,  earth  with  heaven. 
These  Eros  and  Alectryon  took  therefrom, 
And  placed  before  the  lovers  ;  and,  meanwhile, 
Melodious  breathings  from  unfinger'd  lutes, 
Warblings  from  unseen  nightingales,  and  songs 
From  lips  uncrimson'd,  scatter'd  music  round. 
So  fled  the  light-shod  moments,  hour  by  hour, 
While  the  grim  husband  clang'd  upon  his  forge 
In  lurid  caverns  of  the  distant  isle, 


ALECTRYON.  101 

Unboding,  and  unheeded  in  his  home, 
Save  with  a  scornful  jest.     Till  now  the  crown 
Of  Artemis  shone  at  her  topmost  height : 
Then  rose  the  impassion'd  lovers,  with  rapt  eyes 
Fix'd  each  on  each,  and  pass'd  beyond  the  hall, 
Thro'  curtains  of  that  chamber  whence  all  winds 
Of  love  flow  ever  toward  the  fourfold  Earth ; 
At  whose  dim  vestibule  Alectryon 
Disposed  him,  mindful  of  his  master's  word ; 
But  Eros,  heavy-eyed,  long  since  had  slept, 
Deep-muffled  in  the  softness  of  his  plumes. 
And  all  was  silence  in  the  House  of  Fire. 

Only  Alectryon,  thro'  brazen  bars,* 
Watch'd  the  blue  East  for  Eos,  she  whose  torch. 
Should  warn  him  of  the  coming  of  the  Sun. 
Even  thus  he  kept  his  vigils :  but,  ere  half 
Her  silvery  downward  path  the  Huntress  knew, 
His  senses  by  that  rich  immortal  food 
Grew  numb'd  with  languor.     Then  the  shadowy  hall's 
Deep  columns  glimmer'd,  interblent  with  dreams  — 
Thick  forests,  running  waters,  darkling  caves 
Of  Thrace  ;  and  half  in  thought  he  grasp'd  the  bow  ; 
Hunted  once  more  within  his  native  wilds, 


102  POEMS. 

Cheering  the  hounds  ;  until  before  his  eyes 

The  drapery  of  all  nearer  pictures  fell, 

And  his  limbs  droop'd.     Whereat  the  imp  of  Sleep, 

Hypnos,  who  hid  him  at  the  outer  gate, 

Slid  in  with  silken-sandall'd  feet,  and  laid 

A  subtle  finger  on  his  lids.     And  so, 

Crouch'd  at  the  warder-post,  Alectryon  slept. 

Meanwhile  the  God  and  Goddess,  recking  naught 
Of  evil,  trusting  to  the  faithful  boy, 
Sank  satiate  in  the  calm  of  tranced  rest. 
And  past  the  sleeping  warder,  deep  within 
The  portals  of  that  chamber  whence  all  winds 
Of  love  flow  ever  toward  the  fourfold  Earth, 
Hypnos  kept  on,  walking,  yet  half  afloat 
In  the  sweet  air ;  and,  fluttering  with  cool  wings 
Above  their  couch,  fann'd  the  reposeful  pair 
To  slumber.     Thus,  a  careless  twilight  hour, 
Unknowing  Eos  and  her  torch,  they  slept. 

Ill-fated  rest !     Awake,  ye  fleet-wing'd  Loves, 
Your  mistress  !    Eos,  rouse  the  sleeping  God, 
And  warn  him  of  the  coming  of  the  Day ! 
Alectryon,  wake  !     In  vain :  Eos  swept  by, 


ALECTRYdN.  103 

Radiant,  a  blushing  finger  on  her  lips. 

In  vain !     Close  on  her  flight,  from  furthest  East, 

The  peering  Helios  drove  his  lambent  car, 

Casting  the  tell-tale  beams  on  earth  and  sky, 

Until  Olympos  laugh'd  within  his  light ; 

And  all  the  House  of  Fire  grew  roof 'd  with  gold  ; 

And  thro'  its  brazen  windows  Helios  gazed 

Upon  the  sleeping  lovers :   thence  away 

To  Lemnos  flash'd,  across  the  rearward  sea, 

A  messenger,  from  whom  the  vengeful  smith, 

Hephaestos,  learn'd  the  story  of  his  wrongs ; 

Whence  afterward  rude  scandal  spread  thro'  Heaven. 

But  they,  the  lovers,  startled  from  sweet  sleep 
By  garish  Day,  stood  timorous  and  mute, 
Even  as  a  regal  pair,  the  hart  and  hind, 
When  first  the  keynote  of  the  clarion  horn 
Pierces  their  covert,  and  the  deep-mouth'd  hound 
Bays,  following  on  the  trail ;   then,  with  small  pause 
For  amorous  partings,  sped  in  diverse  ways. 
She,  Aphrodite,  clothed  in  pearly  cloud, 
Dropt  from  Olympos  to  the  eastern  shore ; 
Thence  floated,  half  in  shame,  half  laughter-pleased, 
Southward  across  the  blue  JEgaean  sea, 


104  POEMS. 

That  had  a  thousand  little  dimpling  smiles 

At  her  discomfort,  and  a  thousand  eyes 

To  shoot  irreverent  glances.     But  her  conch 

Pass'd  the  Eubcean  coasts,  and  softly  on 

By  rugged  Delos,  and  the  gentler  slope 

Of  Naxos,  to  Icarian  waves  serene  ; 

Thence  sail'd  betwixt  fair  Rhodes,  on  the  left, 

And  windy  Carpathos,  until  it  touch'd 

Cyprus  ;  and  soon  the  conscious  Goddess  found 

Her  bower  in  the  hollow  of  the  isle  ; 

And  wondering  nymphs  in  their  white  arms  received 

Their  white-arm'd  mistress,  bathing  her  fair  limbs 

In  fragrant  dews,  twining  her  lucent  hair 

With  roses,  and  with  kisses  soothing  her  ; 

Till,  glowing  in  fresh  loveliness,  she  sank 

To  stillness,  tended  in  the  sacred  isle, 

And  hid  herself  awhile  from  all  her  peers. 

But  angry  Ares  faced  the  treacherous  Morn, 
Spurning  the  palace  tower  ;  nor  look'd  behind, 
Disdainful  of  himself  and  secret  joys 
That  stript  him  to  the  laughter  of  the  Gods. 
Toward  the  east  he  made,  and  overhung 
The  broad  Thermaic  gulf;  then,  shunning  well 


ALECTRYdN.  105 

The  crags  of  Lemnos,  by  Mount  Athos  stay'd 
A  moment,  mute  ;  thence  hurtled  sheer  away, 
Across  the  murmuring  Northern  sea,  whose  waves 
Are  swoll'n  in  billows  ruffled  with  the  cuffs 
Of  endless  winds ;  so  reach'd  the  shores  of  Thrace, 
And  spleen  pursued  him  in  the  tangled  wilds. 

Hither  at  eventide  remorseful  came 
Alectryon  ;  but  the  indignant  God, 
With  harsh  revilings,  changed  him  to  the  Cock, 
That  evermore,  remembering  his  fault, 
Heralds  with  warning  voice  the  coming  Day. 


THE  TEST. 


SEVEN   women  loved   him.      When   the  wrinkled 
pall 

Enwrapt  him  from  their  uiifulfill'd  desire, 
(Death,  pale  triumphant  rival,  conquering  all,) 

They  came,  for  that  last  look,  around  his  pyre. 

One   strew'd   white    roses,   on   whose    leaves   were 

hung 
Her  tears,  like  dew ;  and  in  discreet  attire 

Warbled  her  tuneful  sorrow.     Next  among 

The  group,  a  fair-hair'd  virgin  moved  serenely, 
Whose  saintly  heart  no  vain  repinings  wrung, 


THE  TEST.  107 

Reach'd    the    calm   dust,   and    there,   composed    and 

queenly, 

Gazed,  but  the  missal  trembled  in  her  hand : 
"  That's  with  the  past,"  she  said,  "  nor  may  I  meanly 

Give  way  to  tears  ! "   and  pass'd  into  the  land. 

The  third  hung  feebly  on  the  portals,  moaning, 
With  whiten'd  lips  —  and  feet  that  stood  in  sand, 

So  weak  they  seem'd  —  and  all  her  passion  owning. 

The  fourth,  a  ripe,  luxurious  maiden,  came, 
Half  for  such  homage  to  the  dead  atoning 

By  smiles  on  one  who  fann'd  a  later  flame 

In  her  slight  soul,  her  fickle  steps  attended. 
The  fifth  and  sixth  were  sisters :  at  the  same 

"Wild  moment,  both  above  the  image  bended, 

And  with  immortal  hatred  each  on  each 
Glared,  and  therewith  her  exultation  blended, 

To  know  the  dead  had  'scaped  the  other's  reach ! 

Meanwhile,  thro'  all  the  words  of  anguish  spoken, 
One  lowly  form  had  given  no  sound  of  speech, 


108  POEMS. 

Thro'  all  the  signs  of  woe,  no  sign  nor  token ; 

But  when  they  came  to  bear  him  to  his  rest, 
They  found  her  beauty  paled  —  her  heart  was  broken : 

And  in  the  Silent  Land  his  shade  confest 
That  she,  of  all  the  seven,  loved  him  best. 


. 

THE  OLD  LOVE  AND  THE  NEW. 

/"\NCE  more  on  the  fallow  hill-side,  as  of  old,  I  lie  at 

"       rest 

For  an  hour,  while  the  sunshine  trembles  thro'  the 
walnut-tree  to  the  west  — 

Shakes  on  the  rocks  and  fragrant  ferns,  and  the  berry- 
bushes  around ; 

And  I  watch,  as  of  old,  the  cattle  graze  in  the  lower 
pasture-ground. 

Of  the  Saxon  months  of  blossom,  when  the  merle  and 
mavis  sing, 

And  a  dust  of  gold  falls  everywhere  from  the  soft  mid 
summer's  wing, 

I  only  know  from  my  poets,  or  from  pictures  that  hither 
come, 

Sweet  with  the  smile  of  the  hawthorn-hedge  and  the 
scent  of  the  harvest-home. 


110  POEMS. 

, 

But  July  in  our  own  New  England  —  I  bask  myself  in 

its  prime, 
As  one  in  the  light  of  a  face  he  loves,  and  has  not  seen 

for  a  time ! 
Again  the  perfect  blue   of  the  sky;  the  fresh  green 

woods ;  the  call 
Of  the  crested  jay ;  the  tangled  vines  that  cover  the 

frost-thrown  wall : 

Sounds  and  shadows  remembered  well!  the  ground- 
bee's  droning  hum ; 

The  distant  musical  tree-tops ;  the  locust  beating  his 
drum ; 

And  the  ripen'd  July  warmth,  that  seems  akin  to  a  fire 
which  stole, 

Long  summers  since,  thro'  the  thews  of  youth,  to  soften 
and  harden  my  soul. 

Here  it  was  that  I  loved  her  —  as  only  a  stripling  can, 
Who  doats  on  a  girl  that  others  know  no  mate  for  the 

future  man ; 
It  was  well,  perhaps,  that  at  last  my  pride  and  honor 

outgrew  her  art, 
That  there  came  an  hour,  when  from  broken  chains  I 

fled  —  with  a  broken  heart. 


THE  OLD  LOVE  AND  THE  NEW.  Ill 

'Twas  well :  but  the  fire  would  still  flash  up  in  sharp, 
heat-lightning  gleams, 

And  ever  at  night  the  false,  fair  face  shone  into  pas 
sionate  dreams  ; 

The  false,  fair  form,  thro'  many  a  year,  was  somewhere 
close  at  my  side, 

And  crept,  as  by  right,  to  my  very  arms  and  the  place 
of  my  patient  bride. 

Bride  and  vision  have  pass'd  away,  and  I  am  again 
alone : 

Changed  by  years ;  not  wiser,  I  think,  but  only  differ 
ent  grown : 

Not  so  much  nearer  wisdom  is  a  man  than  a  boy,  forsooth, 

Though,  in  scorn  of  what  has  come  and  gone,  he  hates 
the  ways  of  his  youth. 

In  seven  years,  I  have  heard  it  said,  a  soul  shall  change 

its  frame ; 
Atom  for  atom,  the  man  shall  be  the  same,  yet  not  the 

same  ; 
The  last  of  the  ancient  ichor  shall  pass  away  from  his 

veins, 
And  a  new-born  light  shall  fill  the  eyes  whose  earlier 

lustre  wanes. 


112  POEMS. 

In  seven  years,  it  is  written,  a  man  shall  shift  his 

mood; 
Good  shall  seem  what  was  evil,  and  evil  the  thing  that 

was  good ; 
Ye  that  welcome  the  coming  and  speed  the  parting 

guest, 
Tell  me,  O  winds  of  summer !  am  I  not  half-confest  ? 

For  along  the  tide  of  this  mellow  month  new  fancies 
guide  my  helm, 

Another  form  has  enter'd  my  heart  as  rightful  queen 
of  the  realm ; 

From  under  their  long  black  lashes  new  eyes  —  half- 
blue,  half-gray  — 

Pierce  thro'  my  soul,  to  drive  the  ghost  of  the  old  love 
quite  away. 

Shadow  of  years !  at  last  it  sinks  in  the  sepulchre  of 

the  past : 
A  gentle  image  and  fair  to  see,  but  was  my  passion  so 

vast? 
"  For  you,"  I  said,  "  be  you  false  or  true,  are  ever  life 

of  my  life !  " 
Was  it  myself  or  another  who  spoke,  and  ask'd  her  to 

be  his  wife  ? 


THE   OLD  LOVE  AND   THE  NEW.         113 

For  here,  on  the  dear  old  hill-side,  I  lie  at  rest  again, 
And  think  with  a  quiet  self-content  of  all  the  passion 

and  pain, 
Of  the  strong  resolve  and  the  after-strife  —  but  the 

vistas  round  me  seem 
So  little  changed,  that  I  hardly  know  if  the  past  is  not 

dream. 

Can  I  have  sailed,  for  seven  years,  far  out  in  the  open 

world ; 
Have  tack'd  and  drifted  here  and  there,  by  eddying 

currents  whirl'd ; 
Have  gain'd  and  lost,  and  found  again  ;  and  now,  for  a 

respite,  come 
Once  more  to  the  happy  scenes  of  old,  and  the  haven  I 

voyaged  from  ? 

Blended  infinite  murmurs  of  True  Love's  earliest  song, 
Where  are  you  slumbering  out  of  the  heart  that  gave 

you  echoes  so  long  ? 
But  chords  that  have  ceased  to  vibrate  the  swell  of  an 

ancient  strain, 
May  thrill  with  a  soulful  music  when  rightly  touch'd 

again. 

8 


114  POEMS. 

Rock  and  forest  and  meadow :  landscape  perfect  and 

true ! 

O,  if  ourselves  were  tender  and  all  unchangeful  as  you, 
I  should  not  now  be  dreaming  of  seven  years  that  have 

been, 
Nor  bidding  old  love  good-by  forever,  and  letting  the 

new  love  in  1 


ESTELLE. 

;  How  came  he  mad  ?  "  —  HAMLET. 


all  the  beautiful  demons,  who  fasten  on  human 

hearts, 
To  fetter  the  bodies  and  souls  of  men  with  exquisite, 

mocking  arts, 

The  cruellest,  and  subtlest,  and  fairest  to  mortal  sight, 
Is  surely  a  woman  called  Estelle,  who  tortures  me  day 

and  night. 

The  first  time  that  I  saw  her,  she  pass'd  with  sweet  lips 

mute, 
As  if  in  scorn  of  the  vacant  praise  of  those  who  kept 

her  suit ; 
A  hundred  lustres  flash'd  and  shone  as  she  rustled  thro' 

the  crowd, 
And  a  passion  seized  me  for  her  there  —  so  passionless 

and  proud. 


116  POEMS. 

The  second  time  that  I  saw  her,  she  met  me  face  to  face  : 
Her  bending  beauty  answer'd  my  bow  in  a  tremulous 

moment's  space  ; 
With  an  upward  glance  that  instantly  fell  she  read  me 

through  and  through, 
And  found  in  me  something  worth  her  while  to  idle 

with  and  subdue ; 

Something,  I  know  not  what :    perhaps  the  spirit  of 

eager  youth, 
That  named  her  a  queen  of  queens  at  once,  and  loved 

her  in  very  truth  ; 
That  threw  its  pearl  of  pearls  at  her  feet,  and  offer'd 

her,  in  a  breath, 
The  costliest  gift  a  man  can  give  from  his  cradle  to  his 

death. 

The  third  time  that  I  saw  her  —  this  woman  called 
Estelle  — 

She  pass'd  her  milk-white  arm  thro'  mine  and  dazzled 
me  with  her  spell ; 

A  blissful  fever  thrill'd  my  veins,  and  there,  in  the 
moonbeams  white, 

I  yielded  my  soul  to  the  fierce  control  of  that  madden 
ing  delight ! 


ESTELLE.  117 

And  at  many  a  trysting  afterwards  she  wove  my  heart 
strings  round 

Her  delicate  fingers,  twisting  them,  and  chanting  low 
as  she  wound ; 

The  rune  she  sang  rang  sweet  and  clear  like  the  chime 
of  a  witch's  bell : 

Its  echo  haunts  me  even  now,  with  the  word  Estelle  — 
Estelle ! 

Ah,  then,  as  a  dozen  before  me  had,  I  lay  at  last  at  her 

feet, 
And  she  turn'd  me  off  with  a  calm  surprise  when  her 

triumph  was  all  complete  : 
It  made  me  wild,  the  stroke  which  smiled  so  pitiless 

out  of  her  eyes, 
Like  lightning  fall'n,  in  clear  noonday,  from  cloudless 

and  bluest  skies ! 

The  whirlwind  follow'd  upon  my  brain  and  beat  my 

thoughts  to  rack : 
Who  knows  the  many  a  month  I  lay  ere  memory  floated 

back? 
Even  now,  I  tell  you,  I  wonder  whether  this  woman, 

called  Estelle, 


118  POEMS. 

Is  flesh  and  blood,  or  a  beautiful  lie,  sent  up  from  the 
depths  of  hell. 

For  at  night  she  stands  where  the  pallid  moon  streams 

into  this  grated  cell, 
And  only  gives  me  that  mocking  glance  when  I  speak 

her  name  —  Estette  ! 
With  the  old  resistless  longing  often  I  strive  to  clasp 

her  there, 
But  she  vanishes  from  my  open  arms  and  hides  I  know 

not  where. 

And  I  hold  that  if  she  were  human  she  could  not  fly 

like  the  wind, 
But  her  heart  would  flutter  against  my  own,  in  spite 

of  her  scornful  mind : 
Yet,  oh  !  she  is  not  a  phantom,  since  devils  are  not  so 

bad, 
As  to  haunt  and  torture  a  man,  long  after  their  tricks 

have  made  him  mad  ! 


EDGED  TOOLS. 


TTTELL,  Helen,  quite  two  years  have  flown 

Since  that  enchanted,  dreamy  night, 
When  you  and  I  were  left  alone, 

And  wonder'd  whether  those  were  right 
Who  said  that  each  the  other  loved  ; 

And  thus  debating,  yes  and  no, 
And  half  in  earnest,  as  it  proved, 

We  bargain'd  to  pretend  'twere  so. 

Two  skeptic  children  of  the  world, 

Each  with  a  heart  engraven  o'er 
With  broken  love-knots,  quaintly  curl'd, 

Of  hot  flirtations  held  before  ; 
Yet,  somehow,  either  seem'd  to  find, 

This  time,  a  something  more  akin 
To  that  young  natural  love  —  the  kind 

Which  comes  but  once,  and  breaks  us  in. 


120  POEMS. 

What  sweetly  stolen  hours  we  knew, 

And  frolics  perilous  as  gay  ! 
Tho'  lit  in  sport,  Love's  taper  grew 

More  bright  and  burning  day  by  day. 
We  knew  each  heart  was  only  lent, 

The  other's  ancient  scars  to  heal : 
The  very  thought  a  pathos  blent 

With  all  the  mirth  we  tried  to  feel. 

How  bravely,  when  the  time  to  part 

Came  with  the  wanton  season's  close, 
Tho'  nature  with  our  mutual  art 

Had  mingled  more  than  either  chose, 
We  smother'd  Love,  upon  the  verge 

Of  folly,  in  one  last  embrace, 
And  buried  him  without  a  dirge, 

And  turn'd,  and  left  his  resting-place. 

Yet  often,  (tell  me  what  it  means,) 
His  spirit  steals  upon  me  here, 

Far,  far  away  from  all  the  scenes 
His  little  lifetime  held  so  dear ; 

He  comes  :  I  hear  a  mystic  strain 
In  which  some  tender  memory  lies  ; 


EDGED  TOOLS.  121 

I  dally  with  your  hair  again  ; 
I  catch  the  gleam  of  violet  eyes. 

Ah,  Helen  !  how  have  matters  been 

Since  those  rude  obsequies,  with  you  ? 
Say,  is  my  partner  in  the  sin 

A  sharer  of  the  penance  too  ? 
Again  the  vision  's  at  my  side  : 

I  drop  my  head  upon  my  breast, 
And  wonder  if  he  really  died, 

And  why  his  spirit  will  not  rest. 


THE   SWALLOW. 


TTAD  I,  my  love  declared,  the  tireless  wing 

That  wafts  the  swallow  to  her  northern  skies, 
I  would  not,  sheer  within  the  rich  surprise 
Of  full-blown  Summer,  like  the  swallow,  fling 
My  coyer  being  ;  but  would  follow  Spring, 
Melodious  consort,  as  she  daily  flies, 
Apace  with  suns,  that  o'er  new  woodlands  rise 
Each  morn  —  with  rains  her  gentler  stages  bring. 
My  pinions  should  beat  music  with  her  own  ; 
Her  smiles  and  odors  should  delight  me  ever, 
Gliding,  with  measured  progress,  from  the  zone 
Where  golden  seas  receive  the  mighty  river, 
Unto  yon  lichen'd  cliffs,  whose  ridges  sever 
Our  Norseland  from  the  arctic  surge's  moan. 


REFUGE   IN  NATURE. 


TITTHEN  the  rude  world's  relentless  war  has  press'd 

Fiercely  upon  them,  and  the  hot  campaign 
Closes  with  battles  lost,  some  yield  their  lives, 
Or  linger  in  the  ruins  of  the  fight  — 
Unwise,  and  comprehending  not  their  fate, 
Nor  gathering  that  affluent  recompense 
Which  the  all-pitying  Earth  has  yet  in  store. 
Surely  such  men  have  never  known  the  love 
Of  Nature  ;  nor  had  recourse  to  her  fount 
Of  calm  delights,  whose  influences  heal 
The  wounded  spirits  of  her  vanquish'd  sons  ; 
Nor  ever  —  in  those  fruitful  earlier  days, 
Wherein  her  manifest  forms  do  most  enrich 
Our  senses  void  of  subtler  cognizance  — 
Wander'd  in  summer  fields,  climb'd  the  free  hills, 
Pursued  the  murmuring  music  of  her  streams, 
And  found  the  borders  of  her  sounding  sea. 


124  POEMS. 

But  thou  —  when,  in  the  multitudinous  lists 
Of  traffic,  all  thine  own  is  forfeited 
At  some  wild  hazard,  or  by  weakening  drains 
Pour'd  from  thee  ;  or  when,  striving  for  the  meed 
Of  place,  thou  failest,  and  the  lesser  man 
By  each  ignoble  method  wins  thy  due ; 
When  the  injustice  of  the  social  world 
Environs  thee  ;  when  ruthless  public  scorn, 
Black  slander,  and  the  meannesses  of  friends, 
Have  made  the  bustling  practice  of  the  world 
To  thee  a  discord  and  a  mockery  ; 
Or  even  if  that  last  extremest  pang 
Be  thine,  and,  added  to  such  other  woes, 
The  loss  of  that  forever  faithful  love 
Which  else  had  balanced  all :  the  putting  out, 
Untimely,  of  the  light  in  dearest  eyes  ;  — 
At  such  a  time  thou  well  may'st  count  the  days 
Evil,  and  for  a  season  quit  the  field  ; 
Yet  not  surrendering  all  human  hopes, 
Nor  the  rich  physical  life  which  still  remains 
God's  boon  and  thy  sustainer.     It  were  base 
To  join  alliance  with  the  hosts  of  Fate 
Against  thyself:  crowning  their  victory 
By  loose  despair,  or  seeking  rest  in  death. 


REFUGE  IN  NATURE.  125 

More  wise,  betake  thee  to  those  sylvan  haunts 
Thou  knewest  when  young,  and,  once  again  a  child, 
Let  their  perennial  loveliness  renew 
Thy  natural  faith  and  childhood's  heart  serene. 
Forgetting  all  the  toilsome  pilgrimage, 
Awake  from  strife  and  shame,  as  from  a  dream 
Dream'd  by  a  boy,  when  under  waving  trees 
He  sleeps  and  dreams  a  languid  afternoon. 
Once  more  from  these  harmonious  beauties  gain 
Repose  and  ransom,  and  a  power  to  feel 
The  immortal  gladness  of  inanimate  things. 

There  is  the  mighty  Mother,  ever  young 
And  garlanded,  and  welcoming  her  sons. 
There  are  her  thousand  charms  to  soothe  thy  pain, 
And  merge  thy  little,  individual  woe 
In  the  broad  health  and  happy  fruitfulness 
Of  all  that  smiles  around  thee.     For  thy  sake 
The  woven  arches  of  her  forests  breathe 
Perpetual  anthems,  and  the  blue  skies  smile 
Between,  to  heal  thee  with  their  infinite  hope. 
There  are  her  crystal  waters  ;  lave  thy  brows, 
Hot  with  long  turmoil,  in  their  purity : 
Wash  off  the  battle-dust  from  those  poor  limbs 


126  POEMS. 

Blood-stain'd  and  weary.     Holy  sleep  shall  come 

Upon  thee  ;  waking,  thou  shalt  find  in  bloom 

The  lilies,  fresh  as  in  the  olden  days  ; 

And  once  again,  when  Night  unveils  her  stars, 

Thou  shalt  have  sight  of  their  high  radiance, 

And  feel  the  old,  mysterious  awe  subdue 

The  phantoms  of  thy  pain. 

And  from  that  height 

A  voice  shall  whisper  of  the  faith,  thro'  which 
A  man  may  act  his  part  until  the  end. 
Anon  thy  ancient  yearning'  for  the  fight 
May  come  once  more,  temper'd  by  poise  of  chance, 
And  guided  well  with  all  experience. 
Invisible  hands  may  gird  thy  armor  on, 
And  Nature  put  new  weapons  in  thy  hands, 
Sending  thee  out  to  try  the  world  again  — 
Perchance  to  conquer,  being  cased  in  mail 
Of  double  memories  :  knowing  smaller  griefs 
Can  add  no  sorrow  to  the  woful  past ; 
And  that,  howbeit  thou  mayest  stand  or  fall, 
Earth  proffers  men  her  refuge  everywhere, 
And  Heaven's  promise  is  for  aye  the  same. 


MONTAGU. 


QUEEN  Katherine  of  Arragon 
In  gray  Kimbolton  dwelt, 
A  joyous  bride,  ere  bluff  King  Hal 
To  Anne's  beauty  knelt. 

Still  in  her  haughty  Spanish  eyes 
Their  childhood's  lustre  shone, 

That  lit  with  love  two  royal  hearts, 
And  won  the  English  throne. 

From  gray  Kimbolton's  castle-gate 
She  rode,  each  summer's  day, 

And  blithely  led  the  greenwood  chase 
With  hawk  and  hound  away. 


128  POEMS. 

And  ever  handsome  Montagu, 
Her  Master  of  the  Horse, 

To  guard  his  mistress  kept  her  pace 
O'er  heather,  turf,  and  gorse. 

O,  who  so  brave  as  Montagu 
To  leap  the  hedges  clear  ! 

And  who  so  fleet  as  he  to  find 
The  coverts  of  the  deer ! 

And  who  so  wild  as  Montagu, 
To  seek  his  sovereign's  love ! 

More  hopeless  than  a  child,  who  craves 
The  brightest  star  above. 


o 


Day  after  day  her  presence  fed 

The  fever  at  his  heart ; 
Yet  loyally  the  young  knight  scorn'd 

To  play  a  traitor's  part. 

Only,  when  at  her  palfrey's  side 
He  bow'd  him  by  command, 

Light'ning  her  footfall  to  the  earth, 
He  press'd  her  dainty  hand  ; 


MONTAGU.  129 

A  tender  touch,  as  light  as  love, 

Soft  as  his  heart's  desire  ; 
But  aye,  in  Katherine's  artless  blood, 

It  woke  no  answering  fire. 

King  Hal  to  gray  Kimbolton  came 

Ere  long,  and  true  love's  sign, 
Unused  in  colder  Arragon, 

She  pray'd  him  to  divine  : 

"  Canst  tell  me,  Sire,"  she  said,  "  what  mean 

The  gentry  of  your  land, 
When  softly,  thus,  and  thus,  they  take 

And  press  a  lady's  hand  ?  " 

"  Ha !  ha  !  "  laugh'd  Hal,  "  but  tell  me,  Chick, 

Each  answering  in  course, 
Do  any  press  your  hand  ?  "    "  O,  yes, 

My  Master  of  the  Horse." 

Off  to  the  wars  her  gallant  went, 

And  push'd  the  foremost  dykes, 
And  gash'd  his  fair  young  form  against 

A  score  of  Flemish  pikes. 


130  POEMS. 

Heart's  blood  ebb'd  fast ;  but  Montagu, 

Dipping  a  finger,  wove 
These  red  words  in  his  shield :  "  Dear  Queen, 

I  perish  of  your  love  !  " 

Kimbolton,  after  many  a  year, 

Again  met  Katherine's  view ; 
The  banish'd  wife,  with  half  a  sigh, 

Remember'd  Montagu. 


WILD   WINDS   WHISTLE. 


1. 

O IR  ULRIC  a  Southern  dame  has  wed ; 
Wild  winds  whistle  and  snow  is  come  ; 
He  has  brought  her  home  to  his  bower  and  bed. 
Hither  and  thither  the  birds  fly  home. 

Her  hair  is  darker  than  thick  of  night ; 

Wild  winds  whistle,  fyc. 
Her  hands  are  fair,  and  her  step  is  light. 

Hither  and  thither,  fyc. 

From  out  his  castel  in  the  North, 
Sir  Ulric  to  hunt  rode  lightly  forth. 

Three  things  he  left  her  for  good  or  ill  — 
A  bonny  bird  that  should  sing  at  will, 


132  POEMS. 

With  carol  sweeter  than  silver  bell, 
Day  and  night  in  the  old  castel ; 

A  lithe  little  page  to  gather  flowers ; 
And  a  crystal  dial  to  mark  the  hours. 

2. 

Lady  Margaret  watch'd  Sir  Ulric  speed 
Away  to  the  chase  on  his  faithful  steed. 

From  morning  till  night,  the  first  day  long, 
She  sat  and  listen'd  the  bonny  bird's  song. 

/ 

The  second  day  long,  with  fingers  fair, 
She  curl'd  and  comb'd  her  page's  hair. 

The  third  day's  sun  rose  up  on  high ; 
By  the  dial  she  was  seated  nigh : 

She  loathed  the  bird  and  the  page's  face, 
And  counted  the  shadow's  creeping  pace. 

3. 

The  strange  knight  drew  his  bridle-rein ; 

He  look'd  at  the  sky  and  he  look'd  at  the  plain. 


WILD    WINDS   WHISTLE.  133 

"  0  lady !  "  he  said  —  "  'twas  a  sin  and  shame 
To  leave  for  the  chase  so  fair  a  dame." 

"  0  lady  !  "  he  said  —  "  we  two  will  flee 
To  the  blithesome  land  of  Italic  ; 

"  There  the  orange  grows,  and  the  fruitful  vine, 
And  a  bower  of  myrtle  shall  be  thine." 

He  has  taken  her  hand  and  kiss'd  her  mouth : 
Now  Ho !  sing  Ho  !  for  the  sunny  South. 

He  has  kiss'd  her  mouth  and  clasp'd  her  waist : 
Now,  good  gray  steed,  make  haste :  make  haste ! 

4. 

Sir  Ulric  back  from  the  chase  has  come, 
And  sounds  the  horn  at  his  castel-home. 

Or  ever  he  drew  his  bridle  rein, 
He  saw  the  dial  split  in  twain ; 

The  bonny  blithe  bird  was  stark  and  dead, 
And  the  lithe  little  page  hung  down  his  head. 


134  POEMS. 

The  lithe  little  page  hung  down  his  head ; 

Wild  winds  whistle  and  snow  is  come  ; 
"  O  where,  Sir  Page,  has  my  lady  fled  ?  " 

Hither  and  thither  the  birds  fly  home. 


PETER  STUYVESANT'S  NEW  YEAR'S  CALL. 

1  JAN.  A.  C.  1661. 


TT7HERE  nowadays  the  Battery  lies, 

New  York  had  just  begun, 
A  new-born  babe,  to  rub  its  eyes, 

In  Sixteen  Sixty-One. 
They  christen'd  it  Nieuw  Amsterdam, 

Those  burghers  grave  and  stately, 
And  so,  with  schnapps  and  smoke  and  psalm, 

Lived  out  their  lives  sedately. 

Two  windmills  topp'd  their  wooden  wall, 

On  Stadthuys  gazing  down, 
On  fort,  and  cabbage-plots,  and  all 

The  quaintly-gabled  town ; 
These  flapp'd  their  wings  and  shifted  backs, 

As  ancient  scrolls  determine, 


136  POEMS. 

To  scare  the  savage  Hackensacks, 
Paumanks,  and  other  vermin. 

At  night  the  loyal  settlers  lay 

Betwixt  their  feather-beds ; 
In  hose  and  breeches  walk'd  by  day, 

And  smoked,  and  wagg'd  their  heads ; 
No  changeful  fashions  came  from  France, 

The  vrouwleins  to  bewilder ; 
No  broad-brimm'd  burgher  spent  for  pants 

His  every  other  guilder. 

In  petticoats  of  linsey-red, 

And  jackets  neatly  kept, 
The  vrouws  their  knitting-needles  sped 

And  deftly  spun  and  swept ; 
Few  modern-school  flirtations  there 

Set  wheels  of  scandal  trundling, 
But  youths  and  maidens  did  their  share 

Of  staid,  old-fashion'd  bundling. 

—  The  New  Year  opened  clear  and  cold : 
The  snow,  a  Flemish  ell 


PETER  STUYVES ANT'S  NEW  YEAR'S  CALL.    137 

In  depth,  lay  over  Beeckman's  Wold 

And  Wolfert's  frozen  well ; 
Each  burgher  shook  his  kitchen-doors, 

Drew  on  his  Holland  leather, 
Then  stamp'd  thro'  drifts  to  do  the  chores, 

Beshrewing  all  such  weather. 

But  —  after  herring,  ham,  and  kraut  — 

To  all  the  gather'd  town 
The  Dominie  preach'd  the  morning  out, 

In  Calvinistic  gown ; 
While  tough  old  Peter  Stuyvesant 

Sat  pew'd  in  foremost  station : 
The  potent,  sage,  and  valiant 

Third  Governor  of  the  nation. 

Prayer  over,  at  his  mansion  hall, 

With  cake  and  courtly  smile, 
He  met  the  people,  one  and  all, 

In  gubernatorial  style  ; 
Yet  miss'd,  though  now  the  day  was  old, 

An  ancient  fellow-feaster : 
Heer  Govert  Loockermans,  that  bold 

Brewer  and  burgomeester ; 


138  POEMS. 

Who,  in  his  farm-house,  close  without 

The  picket's  eastern  end, 
Sat  growling  at  the  twinge  of  gout 

That  kept  him  from  his  friend. 
But  Peter  strapp'd  his  wooden  peg, 

When  tea  and  cake  were  ended, 
(Meanwhile  the  sound  remaining  leg 

Its  high  jack-boot  defended,) 

A  woolsey  cloak  about  him  threw, 

And  swore,  by  wind  and  limb, 
Since  Govert  kept  from  Peter's  -view, 

Peter  would  visit  him ; 
Then  sallied  forth,  thro'  snow  and  blast, 

While  many  a  humble  greeter 
Stood  wondering  whereaway  so  fast 

Strode  bluff  Hardkoppig  Pieter. 

Past  quay  and  cow-path,  through  a  lane 
Of  vats  and  mounded  tans, 

He  puff'd  along,  with  might  and  main, 
To  Govert  Loockermans ; 

Once  there,  his  right  of  entry  took, 
And  hail'd  his  ancient  crony  : 


PETER  STUYVESANTS  NEW  YEAR'S  CALL.    139 

"  Myn  Gott !  in  dese  Manliattoes,  Loock, 
Ve  gets  more  snow  as  money  ! " 

To  which,  till  after  whiffs  profound, 

The  other  answer'd  not ; 
At  last  there  came  responsive  sound : 

«  Yah,  Peter  :  yah,  Myn  Gott !  " 
Then  goedevrouw  Marie  sat  her  guest 

Beneath  the  chimney-gable, 
And  courtesied,  bustling  at  her  best 

To  spread  the  New  Year's  table. 

She  brought  the  pure  and  genial  schnapps, 

That  years  before  had  come  — 
In  the  "  Nieuw  Nederlandts,"  perhaps  — 

To  cheer  the  settlers'  home  ; 
The  long-stemm'd  pipes  ;  the  fragrant  roll 

Of  press'd  and  crispy  Spanish  ; 
Then  placed  the  earthen  mugs  and  bowl, 

Nor  long  delay'd  to  vanish. 

Thereat,  with  cheery  nod  and  wink, 
And  honors  of  the  day, 


POEMS. 

The  trader  mix'd  the  Governor's  drink 

As  evening  sped  away. 
That  ancient  room  !    I  see  it  now : 

The  carven  nutwood  dresser  ; 
The  drawers,  that  many  a  burgher's  vrouw 

Begrudged  their  rich  possessor ; 

The  brace  of  high-back'd,  leathern  chairs, 

Brass-nail'd  at  every  seam  ; 
Six  others,  ranged  in  equal  pairs  ; 

The  bacon  hung  abeam  ; 
The  chimney-front,  with  porcelain  shelft ; 

The  hearty  wooden  fire  ; 
The  picture,  on  the  steaming  delft, 

Of  David  and  Goliah. 

I  see  the  two  old  Dutchmen  sit 

Like  Magog  and  his  mate, 
And  hear  them,  when  their  pipes  are  lit, 

Discuss  affairs  of  state  : 
The  clique  that  would  their  sway  demean  ; 

The  pestilent  importation 
Of  wooden  nutmegs,  from  the  lean 

And  losel  Yankee  nation. 


PETER  STUYVES ANT'S  NEW  YEAR'S  CALL.    141 

But  when  the  subtle  juniper 

Assumed  its  sure  command, 
They  drank  the  buxom  loves  that  were  — 

They  drank  the  Motherland ; 
They  drank  the  famous  Swedish  wars, 

Stout  Peter's  special  glory, 
While  Govert  proudly  show'd  the  scars 

Of  Indian  contests  gory. 

Ere  long,  the  berry's  power  awoke 

Some  music  in  their  brains, 
And,  trumpet-like,  through  rolling  smoke, 

Rang  long-forgotten  strains : 
Old  Flemish  snatches,  full  of  blood, 

Of  phantom  ships  and  battle ; 
And  Peter,  with  his  leg  of  wood, 

Made  floor  and  casement  rattle. 

Then  round  and  round  the  dresser  pranced, 

The  chairs  began  to  wheel, 
And  on  the  board  the  punch-bowl  danced 

A  Netherlandish  reel ; 
Till  midnight  o'er  the  farmhouse  spread 

Her  New- Year's  skirts  of  sable, 


142  POEMS. 

And,  inch  by  inch,  each  puzzled  head 
Dropt  down  upon  the  table. 

But  still  to  Peter,  as  he  dream'd, 

That  table  spread  and  turn'd ; 
The  chimney-log  blazed  high,  and  seem'd 

To  circle  as  it  burn'd  ; 
The  town  into  the  vision  grew 

From  ending  to  beginning ; 
Fort,  wall,  and  windmill  met  his  view, 

All  widening  and  spinning. 

The  cowpaths,  leading  to  the  docks, 

Grew  broader,  whirling  past, 
And  checker'd  into  shining  blocks 

A  city  fair  and1  vast ; 
Stores,  churches,  mansions,  overspread 

The  metamorphosed  island, 
While  not  a  beaver  show'd  his  head 

From  Swamp  to  Kalchhook  highland. 

Eftsoons  the  picture  pass'd  away  ; 

Hours  after,  Peter  woke 
To  see  a  spectral  streak  of  day 


PETER  STUYVES ANT'S  NEW  YEARS  CALL.    143 

Gleam  in  thro'  fading  smoke  ; 
Still  slept  old  Govert,  snoring  on 

In  most  melodious  numbers ; 
No  dreams  of  Eighteen  Sixty-One 

Commingled  with  his  slumbers. 

But  Peter,  from  the  farmhouse-door, 

Gazed  doubtfully  around, 
Rejoiced  to  find  himself  once  more 

On  sure  and  solid  ground. 
The  sky  was  somewhat  dark  ahead : 

Wind  East,  and  morning  lowery  ; 
But  on  he  push'd,  a  two-miles'  tread, 

To  breakfast  at  his  Bouwery. 


III. 
TEANSLATION. 


10 


JEAN  PROUVAIRE'S    SONG  AT   THE 
BARRICADE. 


"While  the  men  were  making  cartridges  and  the  women  lint; 
while  a  large  frying-pan,  full  of  melted  pewter  and  lead,  destined  for 
the  bullet-mould,  was  smoking  over  a  burning  furnace;  while  the 
videttes  were  watching  the  barricades  with  arms  in  their  hands; 
while  Enjolras,  whom  nothing  could  distract,  was  watching  the 
videttes ;  Combeferre,  Courfeyrac,  Jean  Prouvaire,  Feuilly  Bossuet, 
Joly,  Bahorel,  a  few  others  besides,  sought  each  other  and  got  to 
gether,  as  in  the  most  peaceful  days  of  their  student-chats,  and  in  a 
corner  of  this  wine-shop  changed  into  a  casemate,  within  two  steps 
of  the  redoubt  which  they  had  thrown  up,  their  carbines  primed  and 
loaded  resting  on  the  backs  of  their  chairs,  these  gallant  young  men, 

so  near  their  last  hour,  began  to  sing  love-rhymes The  hour, 

the  place,  these  memories  of  youth  recalled,  the  few  stars  which  began 
to  shine  in  the  sky,  the  funereal  repose  of  these  deserted  streets,  the 
imminence  of  the  inexorable  event,  gave  a  pathetic  charm  to  these 
rhymes,  murmured  in  a  low  tone  in  the  twilight  by  Jean  Prouvaire, 
who,  as  we  have  said,  was  a  sweet  poet."  — LES  MISEKABLES:  Saint 
Denis,  Book  XII.  Chapter  VI. 

T\0  you  remember  our  charming  times, 

When  we  were  both  at  the  age  which  knows, 
Of  all  the  pleasures  of  Paris,  none 

Like  making  love  in  one's  Sunday  clo'es ; 


148  TRANSLATION. 

When  all  your  birthdays,  added  to  mine, 

A  total  of  forty  would  not  bring, 
And  when,  in  our  humble  and  cosy  roost, 

All,  even  the  Winter,  to  us  was  Spring  ? 

Rare  days !  then  prudish  Manuel  stalk'd, 

Paris  feasted  each  saintsday  in  ; 
Foy  thunder'd  away,  and  —  ah,  your  waist 

Prick'd  me  well  with  a  truant  pin  ! 

Every  one  ogled  you.     At  Prado's, 

Where  you  and  your  briefless  barrister  dined, 
You  were  so  fair  that  the  roses,  I  thought, 

Turn'd  to  look  at  you  from  behind. 

» 
They  seem'd  to  whisper :   "  How  handsome  she  is  ! 

What  wavy  tresses  !  what  sweet  perfume  ! 
Under  her  mantle  she  hides  her  wings : 

Her  flower  of  a  bonnet  is  just  in  bloom !  " 

I  roam'd  with  you,  pressing  your  dainty  arm, 
And  the  passers  thought  that  Love,  in  play, 

Had  mated,  in  unison  so  sweet, 

The  gallant  April  with  gentle  May. 


JEAN  PROUVAIRE'S  SONG.  149 

We  lived  so  cosily,  all  by  ourselves, 
On  love  —  that  choice  forbidden  fruit, 

And  never  a  word  my  lips  could  speak 
But  your  heart  already  had  follow'd  suit. 

The  Sarbonne  was  that  bucolic  place 
Where  night  till  day  my  passion  throve ; 

'Tis  thus  that  an  ardent  youngster  makes 
The  Student's  Quarter  a  Realm  of  Love. 

0  Place  Maubert !    0  Place  Dauphine  ! 

Sky-parlor  reaching  heavenward  far, 
In  whose  depths,  when  you  drew  your  stocking  on, 

I  saw  a  twinkling  morning-star. 

Hard-learn'd  Plato  I've  long  forgot : 
Neither  Malebranche,  nor  Lamennais, 

Could  teach  me  such  faith  in  Providence 
As  the  flower  which  in  your  bosom  lay. 

You  were  my  servant  and  I  your  slave : 

O  golden  attic !    0  joy,  to  lace 
Your  corset ;  to  watch  you  showing,  at  morn, 

The  ancient  mirror  your  youthful  face  ! 


150  TRANSLATION. 

Ah !  who  indeed  could  ever  forget 

That  sky  and  dawn  commingling  still ; 

That  ribbony,  flowery,  gauzy  glory, 

And  Love's  sweet  nonsense  talked  at  will  ? 

Our  garden  a  pot  of  tulips  was  ; 

Your  petticoat  curtain'd  the  window-pane  ; 
I  took  the  earthen  bowl  of  my  pipe 

And  gave  you  a  cup  of  porcelain. 

What  huge  disasters  to  make  us  fun ! 

Your  muff  afire  —  your  tippet  lost : 
And  that  cherish'd  portrait  of  Shakspeare,  sold, 

One  hungry  evening,  at  half  its  cost. 

I  was  a  beggar  and  you  were  kind  : 

A  kiss  from  your  fair  round  arms  I'd  steal, 

While  the  folio-Dante  we  gayly  spread 
With  a  hundred  chestnuts,  our  frugal  meal. 

And  oh  !  when  first  my  favor'd  mouth 
A  kiss  to  your  burning  lips  had  given, 

You  were  dishevell'd  and  all  aglow  ; 

I,  pale  with  rapture,  believed  in  Heaven. 


JEAN  PROUVAIRE'S  SONG. 

Do  you  remember  our  countless  joys, 
Those  neckerchiefs  rumpled  every  day  ? 

Alas,  what  sighs  from  our  boding  hearts 
The  infinite  skies  have  borne  away ! 


151 


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